


The Killing Trade

by doctor_jasley



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Bandom Big Bang, Drama, F/F, F/M, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, PTSD, Survivor Guilt, Violence, anger issues, background organized crime, past secondary character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-03
Updated: 2012-07-03
Packaged: 2017-11-09 02:21:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 73,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/450197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor_jasley/pseuds/doctor_jasley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ex-contract killer Brendon Urie’s life is Spartan at best. He goes to work at Gabe's club; he comes home to his shit hole apartment. He exercises, does chores, and tries to get more than four hours of sleep a night.</p><p>It’s an existence, not much else, but he’s <i>fine</i> with that. That is, until Frank Iero asks him out on a date, and he says yes. Suddenly, the world is harder to navigate with past demons dogging his steps.</p><p>Actually living is hard, but Brendon’s starting to realize maybe that’s the point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Killing Trade

**Author's Note:**

> This is my submission for bbb 2012. 
> 
> God, I have the best betas _evar_. Bootson and Synnerxx are the people behind the curtain who smoothed this behemoth out and made it better. Creepylicious and Wtfbrain did epic jobs with art and mix. A more in depth A/N can be found [Here](http://doctor-jasley.dreamwidth.org/78171.html)(warning it might contain mild spoliers)
> 
> [The Killing Trade](http://doctor-jasley.dreamwidth.org/77950.html) Art - by creepylicious
> 
> [Have It All](http://doctor-jasley.dreamwidth.org/77709.html) Mix - by wtfbrain
> 
>  
> 
> Full Masterlist can be found [Here](http://doctor-jasley.dreamwidth.org/78387.html)

The Killing Trade

Broken blinds let sunlight in through uneven slanted lines that occasionally form puddles of yellow light where the few actual holes are. Some of the plastic folds are either bent up, down, or missing in chunks. Brendon’s never felt the urge to replace them. He’d rather not waste money on a better set. 

There’s really no reason to. His apartment is a shitty one room slum of a place, the kitchen and living area open and encroaching on the mattress he has shoved in one of the far corners.

He doesn’t even have a closet, though he does have a bathroom. There’s no door, of course, and the space is small as hell, but at least he doesn’t have to share a communal shower or toilet. The cold water in the shower hardly ever gets above a tiny stream, so he ends up having to take quick, scalding showers before the rest of the floor steals all the pressure and heat. He’d rather have piping hot water with barely a trickle of coolness weakening it than anything unwarmed that’s pretty much equal to being doused in ice water. 

It’s possible he could afford a better apartment. Brendon just doesn’t really care. He’s in the place enough that perhaps it should bother him that he lives in poverty, but really, it doesn’t matter. It functions well enough for his needs. 

There’s loose paneling under the two cabinets in the kitchen that he uses to store his laptop and other valuables. His mattress isn’t hard to lift and shove up against the wall when he goes through his daily exercise routine, and it’s easy enough to drag back down when he needs it for sleep. Sometimes the place gets a little stifling during the summers, but he’s used to the heat and opening his window doesn’t make him worry like it does some of the other tenants in the complex.

Once he’s finished folding the shirts hanging over the tub to dry during the night, he drops the wire hangers into the milk crate he keeps them in. Brendon sets the pile of button downs and his meager supply of tee shirts in the crate sitting next to the hangers. He washed all his jeans in the tub a few nights ago so he doesn’t have to shift his shirt crate to get to those. When he’s finished placing all of the shirts away, except for one, he puts the final crate full of socks, underwear, and the occasional balled-up tie on top of everything else.

If he’s not careful, he’ll be late for his shift at the club. The Moxie does have an afternoon crowd after all, and Gabe did him a favor by giving him a more permanent spot on the shift roster than the one he’d been working since he was hired in on his eighteenth birthday. 

Pete still thinks Brendon’s crazy for quitting his other occupation, but sometimes you just need a little change. Brendon’s okay wanting that change, even if nearly all his acquaintances seem to tilt their heads at him like he’s said something confusing or unusually funny in a way that’s caught them off guard.

It doesn’t take long to button the shirt he put on when he was finished folding, and he’s out the door, locking it behind him with maybe a minute to spare. He catches one of the metro buses on time and uses his commuter card to swipe his fee. The driver nods at him, and Brendon swings into a seat at the front, one of the side seats under the glass windows, so he can watch who gets on and off.

When it’s time for his stop, he’s on his feet and taking the steps two at a time. The chill of late winter isn’t exactly comfortable, but he’s used to ignoring it by now. Spring should be here soon. 

The Moxie doesn’t look flashy on the outside. It’s a little surprising, considering Gabe owns the damn club, but the inside makes up for it. Part strip club and part dance scene: the Moxie is a dash of neon and a whole fucking bag of glitter and weirdness. 

Most days, Brendon works the bar in the strip portion of the club. Occasionally, he’ll be drafted to work the bar for the dance club, but he prefers the strippers to the heavy beat that never seems to end over on the dance side. Not that he’s ogling the women or anything because they’re not really his thing. It’s just easier this way, and Gabe likes to pander to him for some ungodly reason. 

Sometimes he’s a server for the businessmen with no lives; other times, he’s left behind the heavy wood of the bar top, staring at the thick glass of the liquor bottles thinking about force, speed, and impact. Brendon’s been retired-slash-quit for six months now, and he still can’t stop applying thought to how everything around him could be used as a weapon for various purposes, including the glass chalk used to scrawl out the daily cocktail specials. 

The employee entrance squeaks open, and Victoria waves at him. She’s working on the night’s entertainment for the dance side of the Moxie if the cell phone glued to her ear is clue enough. Gabe should be lurking around somewhere; Brendon doesn’t really want to run into him today. It’s not that he’s in a bad mood, just, he’s been thinking about things. 

It doesn’t help that he had nightmares again last night. Vicious phantoms hunting him while screams slithered through the air around him. Brendon doesn’t always dream, but when he does - which is often enough - they’re usually the dark things he shoves into boxes during the daylight hours. Most are twisted and pulled apart, skewed versions of memories, and only a few are ever genuine wisps of fancy. 

The fact that he fell asleep in Gabe’s bed, doesn’t help. Brendon doesn’t like being considered vulnerable. He hasn’t been that person since he was fifteen, and Jon took him under his guiding wing. Until last night, he’s been good at sneaking out of Gabe’s bed afterwards, and leaving without any hard feelings between them. 

Gabe’s fun and under no illusions about Brendon; Brendon knows Gabe’s just looking for a good time. It’s sex amongst friends. Nothing more, nothing less. Still, he’s never stayed after the sex before, but he did last night. It’s fucking him up because Gabe knows his past. Knows why he has the dreams. He’s seen the pictures Pete showed him and was there when Pete handed Brendon over to Gabe to watch back when Brendon was fifteen and a half, bound and determined to take Jon’s place. 

Pete had his hands full with Ryan and Spencer so it was up to Gabe to make sure Brendon went to school and had a real life. Apparently, the last thing Jon had asked Pete was to make sure Brendon was safe and happy. Some days, Brendon gets drunk and stares at nothing just wondering how mad Jon would be at him for dropping out of school, barely passing his G.E.D., pestering Andy to teach him the tricks of the trade, and picking up where Jon left off before he died. 

Back then, Gabe was younger and wouldn’t touch Brendon in any way that wasn’t platonic. Now, Gabe’s in his late thirties, and Brendon’s been past the age of consent for years. If Pete knows, he hasn’t mentioned anything. Gabe’s still walking around, so Brendon’s more inclined to think that he doesn’t have a clue. Lord knows Pete’s the king of cock blocking Brendon; it doesn't seem to matter that Brendon's twenty-seven, and Pete has far more important things to do than scare people away from Brendon’s bed.

The pegboard in the break room shows Brendon as a server till his shift ends at nine. That’s more than fine by him. It means if anyone tries to slap his ass he has the right to slam them into the always sticky surface of their table. Some of the customers never learn, though, and he’s more than willing to keep teaching them the same lesson until they decide to stop fucking with him.

Gabe doesn’t try to get his attention, even though he shows up around seven to walk the floor and make sure the customers are playing nice -not yelling obscenities at the girls or trying to touch. It’s always amazing how many jackasses don’t read the rules plainly posted on the wall right past the entrance. 

When nine p.m. shows up, Brendon serves his last drink, to a portly man in an expensive suit with his hair combed back with gel and goes to the break room to hang the black server’s apron on its peg before clocking out. If he’s lucky, he can catch the late bus to another part of the city for a show at one of the bars. 

The metro bus is nearly empty when Brendon climbs on. He’s tired and should just go back to his shitty apartment, drop the equally shitty mattress to the floor and sleep until dawn peeks through his broken blinds. Violence simmers under his skin, though, so he gets off at the third stop on the route and walks to the Barrel’s Bottom. It’s a dive, but there’s always something loud and crashing going on there. If he’s remembering his days right, there’s supposed to be a live band tonight until last call.

Music blares out into the street when he opens the door and starts down the stairs. The bouncer at the bottom takes his cover fee and I.D., staring at his I.D. for three seconds longer than necessary before handing it back. Brendon’s used to this; no one ever believes he’s twenty-seven when he goes to the liquor store for booze, and he’s always carded when he comes to the Barrel’s Bottom or any other bar. 

I.D. safely back in his wallet, he’s let in and is automatically swept up in the crowd. Whoever’s singing up on the stage is bad, but no one cares because the guitarist is doing a much better job of working the mass of crashing bodies into a frenzy. Brendon can already feel his shirt clinging to his skin and the cotton of his sleeveless undershirt. The heat is worth it, though, and in seconds, he’s lost in the fray of human jello, writhing and swaying bodies not caring when they get bruised as long as the feeling never stops. 

When he was younger, he never thought he’d enjoy something as wild and chaotic as this, but now, he’d be lost without it. As he got older, there was this worry in the back of his skull telling him he could seriously harm someone if he wasn’t careful. Turns out, that’s not really a problem when the rest of his brain understands just how much he can get away with before he needs to stop and let the violence break against him, instead of him pushing against it. 

Over the years, there have been times where he’s had to shove down the need for this - whatever job he was running at the moment deserving all of his attention. He’s retired now; if he goes out at least once a week and gets bruised up listening to shitty bands in even shittier bars, it’s of no consequence to anyone. 

If Pete's unhappy with Brendon's choices in after-work activities, he can go fuck himself. Brendon’s not his responsibility, never really has been considering Pete shoved him off on Gabe all those years ago because he couldn’t deal with a third moody teenager along with his growing underground business of money laundering, drugs, information, and other sundry things the cops would just die to get their thick, grubby hands all over. 

Maybe it’s a good thing then that Brendon is Gabe’s. This way the cops don’t go snooping around his shitty apartment if they want to try to arrest Pete again. To the cops, he’s just a poor lost soul taken in by a shrewd businessman with questionable tastes in acquaintances. The police department’s under the assumption that Brendon’s spent most of his early twenties as a traveling volunteer. It doesn’t hurt that one of the only expressions he can pull off flawlessly is earnestness. 

As long as he’s not on the law’s shit list, Brendon guesses he shouldn’t give Pete a hard time. Not to mention, Pete makes sure he gets paid and all of Brendon’s money is safely deposited in several different offshore accounts that all filter in and out of each other without causing a red flag to go up. If Brendon ever decided to spook out and go off the grid, he has a new identity to slip into and enough money to support himself until he’s old and wrinkled. 

The band stops playing, and the house lights go up. Even shittier music pipes through the sound system while most of the crowd wanders off to over-work the bar staff. Brendon makes his way to the wall so he can lean against it and watch people act like morons for their beers and high-priced mixed drinks. 

The air is dense with heat and the moisture of human sweat. His shirt is already soaked through. Unbuttoning it takes a minute, the plastic buttons slick against his fingers. Eventually, he’s victorious, and it hangs open. If he wanted to miss the next act, he could slip out and catch a breather. While tempting, the allure of staying put is much stronger than the promise of cooler air touching his sweat-covered skin. 

“If I’d have known there was going to be a peep show between acts I would have come over sooner.”

Brendon tilts his head to the left and watches Frank lean against the wall next to him. It’s actually a wonder that he knows Frank’s name. They only ever seem to cross paths when there’s some brash sounding band playing shitty bar venues. Hell, Brendon didn’t even ask Frank his name the first two times they hooked up in dirty alleys after a particularly vicious set by some underground group hoping to be found and pulled out of slumming it. 

It wasn’t until the fifth time they fell against each other with desperate hands that he introduced himself. Sometimes fate has a way of making you notice things. He might not believe in God anymore, but he’s learned that fate still likes to follow him around, for better or for worse.

He flips Frank off and shrugs out of his button down. He still has his undershirt on so no one in their right mind will try throwing him out for taking off his shirt.

“It’s fucking hot.”

Frank shuffles closer to him and licks a strip of sweat from his skin.

“You’re fucking hot.”

Brendon shrugs his shoulders, and Frank backs away, going back to leaning against the wall.

“The next act is a bunch of assholes.”

A smile flickers across Brendon’s lips.

“I wonder how you know they’re raging assholes. Did they kick you out for not properly embodying the music scene?”

Brendon’s probably pushing it because Frank acts like someone with a boring as fuck nine-to-five job who comes out to catch shows as a way to shed that skin like a snake molting as it grows. It doesn’t help matters that he’s caught shows where Frank’s up on stage with a few of the bands when they need a spare or temp. 

He’s not going to apologize, though. 

Instead of stalking off in the direction of the bar, Frank calls him a douche and flips him off.

“The singer thinks he’s God’s gift to the world, and he can’t hold a note. The drummer stays off beat; he can’t buy a clue as to where the rhythm is supposed to go. And I’m not even going to touch on the guitarist.”

The house lights flicker, a signal that people need to grab their drinks and repopulate the floor. Brendon turns to stare toward the stairs. Suddenly, he doesn’t really want to stay. If the band is as bad as Frank says, then maybe he should just call it a night. He’s already bruised up enough that he should drop right to sleep without have horrible memories traipse past his closed eyelids. 

“If they’re not worth it, I’m not sticking around. Though, that does beg the question, if you’re morally against them, why the fuck did you show up?”

A twenty-something girl, with bleached hair and impractical heels, stumbles into Brendon when he pushes off the wall and heads toward the stairs. There’s the sound of tuning instruments in the background. Fuck it, he’s really not in the mood anymore.

Frank follows him out into the night. The air feels good against his sweaty skin and Brendon shoves a corner of his damp button down into the recesses of the back pocket of his jeans that doesn’t have his wallet in it.

“Nothing better to do, and the Bootleg’s closed to gigs right now while they put down a new floor in the pit. The Carly and Black Cat Sounds have Ladies’ Night tonight, so they’re playing bad eighties pop songs, not even the good shit.”

Unconsciously, Brendon walks with Frank to his car. It’s parked in a shitty public lot fifteen minutes from the bar. When they find Frank’s battered Camry amongst the sea of trucks, tiny compact cars, and the occasional motorcycle, Frank crowds Brendon against the cool metal and kisses him.

When they’re finished giving the parking lot’s security cameras a very explicit show, Brendon uses his dirty shirt to wipe come off his cheek and Frank’s hands. Frank smirks at him, and Brendon shoves him away before flipping Frank off for being a dick.

“Want a ride back to your place?”

Frank always asks, and Brendon never declines, even if he hasn’t given Frank his actual address. Instead, Frank will drop him off at a decent-looking apartment complex about forty-five minutes away from Brendon’s actual place, just like every other time he’s driven Brendon _‘home’_. Then, as soon as Frank drives off, Brendon will duck out of the lobby and start walking to his place, no matter if the weather is chilly or damp.

There’s no way he’s ready to let Frank see his apartment. It’s not that Brendon’s ashamed of it. He just doesn’t want to answer a million questions on why he’s been living in the same shit hole since he was twenty. 

Technically, over the years, there have been months on end where his apartment’s been empty because he was working or _‘helping the less fortunate’_ with church organizations. The point is, in general, he’s been renewing the same lease for seven years. Most sane people don’t do things like that; they make enough money to move somewhere safer.

Frank, unknowingly, drops him off the several blocks from his apartment, as usual, and Brendon walks the rest of the way, sore and clear of anything negative floating through his head, at least for a little while. 

It’s a rare thing for him. In his old line of work, all he ever saw was death, violence, and pain; it makes sense that those things would spill over into everything else in his head. It’s one of the reasons he quit. When there’s no distinction between reality and fiction, that’s the time to start looking for something else to do. 

The bronze key to his front door slides into the lock easily, and he pops it. Once he’s inside, the door gets locked again. Walking around the apartment, he drags the mattress down, tugs off his shoes, and places them next to the stack of milk crates. After that, he goes to the bathroom to splash water on his face, throwing the soiled shirt into the bottom of the tub when he’s done. His sweaty undershirt gets pulled off and dropped on top of it. In the morning, he’ll have to scoop them out so he can shower, but for now he’s too tired to do anything about them. 

It takes a minute and a half to get his window wedged open before Brendon rummages through his stack of milk crates to find his unfitted sheet and lumpy pillow. Once he has the items he needs, he fans the sheet out over the fitted one he only strips when he’s washing the thing and drags the pillow with him when he crawls under the sheet for sleep. 

The sun’s not even pinkening the horizon when he wakes up. His body automatically shifts into awake mode and even though he’s gotten maybe five hours of sleep, he feels worlds better than he has in days. Somehow, the combination of taking in a show and sex with Frank never fails to keep the nightmares away. It’s possibly the main reason he never turns Frank down, even if the two of them are falling into some weird form of a relationship that can’t even begin to be parsed out. 

Going through the motions of his daily routine is dull, and Brendon loses himself in thinking about random things. Should he just say fuck it and pack up the stuff he considers valuable and move somewhere else? Why hasn’t he talked to the Super about his shower? Surely by now, Brendon should have complained about the cold water being nonexistent. What color is the ceiling where Frank lives? Is it beige, white, eggshell? 

None of the thoughts are harmful, so he lets them scroll by while he hefts his mattress off the floor and drops to do push ups. He’s always going to look harmless and about twelve years old, but he’s used to working out by now and it comes in handy. Plus, the motions help mellow him out. It gives him something to focus on, a center that isn’t always bouncing or running away from him. 

The day passes uneventfully until the end of his shift. Gabe corners him after work, and they have a not-talk consisting of silence and even more silence. Brendon was expecting it to happen sooner or later because Gabe worries about him, more so than anyone else Brendon’s called _’friend’_ since his family was killed by murderers clothed in the ilk of law enforcement. Of course he’s going to consider Brendon’s well-being over everything else, including sex. 

He should be mourning the loss, but Brendon finds he’s okay with the decision. He and Gabe work better as strictly friends or whatever it is they’re considered when there was a span of two and a half years where Gabe was technically Brendon’s legal guardian. Perhaps, he should feel uncomfortable at the Moxie because of it, but the club helped finish raising him. Gabe was opening it when Brendon showed up, and if push comes to shove, Brendon can run the place himself since Gabe’s taught him all the tricks of the trade over the years when he’s been around to listen to Gabe ramble about inventories and schedule spreadsheets. Not that he wants to when Ryland and Victoria can do a much better job.

When Brendon stops to think about it - which he doesn’t do often because it makes him twitchy - he wonders if Gabe’s been teaching him so he can take over one day. In much the same way that Pete’s been coaching Ryan on the ins-and-outs of the organized crime circuit running through the city like vital veins carrying blood to and from the heart. The thought makes his fingers clench, not because he doesn’t have a choice. Unlike Pete, Gabe will always ask Brendon first, but if Gabe’s been teaching him for the purpose of running the show one day, it means that eventually Gabe won’t be around. 

Brendon’s already lost his family once; there’s no telling what he’d do if he lost this one as well.

After he leaves Brendon to wash his hands in the staff sink, the night rolls by quickly. Brendon doesn’t wander the streets looking for a show. He goes home and stares at the brown stain marring the far wall of his apartment for hours before falling asleep curled up on the floor. The next two days are free, so he ends up cleaning and running the blocks from his apartment to the unkempt playground thirty minutes to the south and back again.

Friday shows up cloudy and bleak. The news broadcast on the radio says they’re in for some rain. Brendon washes his dirty shirts in the tub, using a bristly brush to scrub alcohol stains out of the fabric. He still has a shirt for work; it’s another button down, but it’s red and black striped instead of something solid in color. Gabe and Victoria won’t care if he comes in wearing a striped shirt. They both know he doesn’t have many changes of clothing so he has to wash twice a week, the plaid and stripes only coming out when everything else has to dry overnight. By tomorrow’s shift, he’ll be back in solid colors again.

Today, he’s working the bar, and Gabe stops by to chit-chat. The banter is friendly, and Brendon smiles back because it’s good to know that at least one thing hasn’t been fucked up. He serves a few regulars at the bar, and a small handful of professionals flock in, making a beeline for the tables right in front of the stage and the girls. Marcy takes one look at them and pronounces them shitty tippers when she walks past the bar with her empty tray. Brendon’s inclined to agree; the businessmen who drag in in groups tend to be skimpy on their bills. 

One of his regulars starts talking about global warming in a slurred voice, and Brendon mentally tells himself to water down the guy’s next order, if he orders again. Slurred speech or not, Trey must know his facts because Brendon gets caught up in the science behind the concepts. He keeps filling orders on autopilot just so he can return to Trey’s side of the bar and ask more questions. A ridiculously obnoxious voice breaks through Trey’s explanation on greenhouse gases, and Brendon snaps his head to the left to see Frank grinning at him brightly. 

“Fancy meeting you in a place like this. No wonder you like putting on a show.”

Trey doesn’t even glare at Frank when Frank steals Brendon’s attention. He just turns on the barstool and stumbles in the direction of the men’s room. Frank jumps so he can sit on the stool properly and does one complete spin before staring at Brendon. Frank’s in a starched shirt and a tie - the knot looking extremely oppressive and tight shoved up against the buttoned collar of his shirt. He doesn’t exactly look comfortable in his work clothes, and Brendon mentally congratulates himself on calling that one right.

“You going to order or just stare at me. I hear pictures work better for that sort of thing.” 

Frank catches him off-guard by pulling out his cell phone and taking a picture.

“I didn’t want to come, but there’s only so many times I can tell the guys to fuck off before they decide to kidnap me for the greater good. Apparently, watching women strip is a manly bonding experience.”

Frank’s shoulders shrug under his stuffy shirt, and Brendon watches. His thoughts shift to how Frank would look out of his shirt, and Brendon turns to grab a bottle of Vodka. Just for the hell of it, he starts mixing a simple screwdriver. No one’s ordering it, but it gives him something else to do that isn’t staring at Frank.

“If I’d known you worked here I would have dropped by sooner.”

When he’s finished with the drink, Brendon sets the glass down, in front of Frank. There’s no telling if Frank’s an orange juice and vodka type of guy or not. Frank pulls a five out of his wallet and sets it on the bar top before curling his fingers around the glass of the drink.

“Not that I was prince charming looking for his Cinderella or anything, but The Zombie Munchies are playing out at Marlo’s next Saturday, and I was wondering if you wanted to go with.”

Brendon tries not to snort at the Disney reference. He shouldn’t find the remark funny; yet, he does. The only reason he doesn’t laugh outright is because Frank’s startled him with an invitation that sounds an awful lot like a date.

“You’re asking me out on a date aren’t you?” 

Frank raises his glass and tips it back. When he’s finished swallowing, he drops the now half-empty glass to the bar top and grins at Brendon again.

“Only if you’re going to say yes. If not, then no.”

Brendon doesn’t know how to answer. He’s never really been on dates. Pete’s the best cock block ever for that. He’s run checks on people Brendon’s been interested in all in the name of protecting him from the crazies. Gabe’s a little more lax about it and won’t step in Brendon’s way even if he gets overly nosy about it. Hell, Pete and Gabe are the biggest reason Brendon started letting himself get picked up at shows. 

He likes sex and getting laid and the sporadic, scattered-about times he slept with Gabe have never been enough. Not that he goes out and prowls for it. He’s taught himself to suppress it when he can. Thinking about getting fucked while on a job never helped him complete his work faster, so he learned to push that urge down along with everything else he wanted but couldn’t have.

“I’m off next weekend. Sure, but just so you know, I suck at this sort of thing.”

Sucking is an understatement and also a pun that has Frank trying not to laugh while Brendon hides his smile by bending under the bar top to snag a damp cleaning rag. He doesn’t really have to wipe down the bar right now, but it’ll give him something to do so he doesn’t look like a maladjusted person with no idea how to deal with people in a proper manner.

“I wouldn’t say no to the sucking. My friends say I tend to be a dick about relationship things. So I think it’ll even things out a bit.”

Frank finishes his drink and Brendon snags the empty glass. When he turns back around Frank slips a club name-stamped, white, paper napkin inked with his number under Brendon's fingers.

“I gotta go pretend to understand why my work colleagues think ogling strippers is a time-honored tradition. Text whenever; I’ll reply when I’m free.”

Brendon folds up the napkin - and Frank’s cell number - and shoves it into his pocket. After that, he fills several drink orders for Marcy. When his shift ends, he finds Gabe in the break room hanging up a gaudy-as-fuck inspirational poster. The monstrosity has kittens climbing rope netting for Christ’s sake. It’s actually kind of adorable.

“If anyone calls in, I can’t work next weekend. I have plans.”

Gabe raises his eyebrows before smiling and asking if he needs to lecture Brendon on the Birds and the Bees.

“Fuck you. Jon did that when I tried to maul him, thinking it was the only way to thank him for pulling me into his place when I could have gotten capped if he hadn’t been nice about it.”

Brendon sits on the edge of the staff couch. He was trying for playful banter but judging from Gabe’s sympathetic face, he’s failed by at least a million yards. He shouldn’t still be so shattered by what happened in the past. It’s been twelve years since his parents and siblings were murdered; yet, somehow, there are nights where he relives that day and those two months with Jon, over and over again.

“I bet that was mortifying, niño.”

Gabe never changes, and he’s always tried to keep Brendon from shaking into a trillion tiny, little pieces. He’s heard the story before. Brendon told him on his eighteenth birthday, after three drinks and Gabe’s present of a permanent job, part-time unless Brendon changed his mind about taking over Jon’s unfinished contracts. That night, he’d told the whole story, no edits and no smoothing over anything like he’d done before whenever Gabe asked him about what had happened. 

“He was so bad at it.”

Sometimes, not often, Brendon forgets that Gabe also knew Jon. There were a lot of people who mourned his death. No one blamed Brendon, even when he wanted them to. They understood that Jon did a good thing, and even if it got him killed, they weren’t going to spit on that action, even if Brendon desperately wanted them to. 

Sixteen wasn’t a good year for him and he spent months trying to get Gabe to hate him as much as he hated himself. That didn’t work, and it took years for him to fully accept that. He still hasn’t completely forgiven himself, but he figures he never really will.

“So, does Mister Leaves Bruises have a name? I’d like to know whose kneecaps I need to break if they knock you up.”

“Bruises?...Forget answering that because it makes me feel like I was cheating on you when... yeah...I wasn’t. Kneecap breaking, that’s original you know. His name’s Frank, and yes, he’s the same guy, and no, before you ask, he’s not a stalker. Though if he is, I think I can handle myself.”

Gabe sits down next to him and ruffles his hair like Brendon’s still that huffy sixteen year old with a chip on his shoulder the size of the world. Brendon glares at him, and Gabe just smiles at him. 

“Was never cheating. I’ll have you know, I’m always original. It’s everyone else who stole the idea from me. I know you can take care of yourself, doesn’t mean I’m not going to worry like an old mamá gallina standing at the doorstep clucking nervously until her chicklets scurry back home for the night.”

Brendon pushes off of the couch and wishes Gabe a good night before going to catch his bus home for the night. On the ride to his apartment, he fishes out the napkin with Frank’s number on it and adds the digits into his contacts folder. As soon as he’s finished, he presses enter to send a new text. It’s possible he’s being stupid, but for once, he’d be happy to have something normal. He’s not knocking what he does have, just, it would be good to not be considered either as fragile as glass or more dangerous than a loaded gun in the hands of a toddler. With Frank, he’s just Brendon, nothing more and nothing less. It’s an unusual feeling for him, and he can’t help but want to chase it down and give it a try.

That doesn’t mean, he thinks this is going to be easy. Not to mention, he has one hell of a personal secret he’s going to have to eventually tell Frank if they decide to get serious about things. In fact, he’s almost certain that dating Frank is going to be harder than trying to poison a mark without the asshole’s innocent children taking sips out of his drink because they’re curious about it.

By the time he’s climbing down the bus’ stairs, his cell phone buzzes with a reply. There’s a smile on his lips when he reads it. Brendon instantly wonders what’s going to fall apart around him this time; he’s not allowed to keep his smiles. It’s been years since he’s been able to hold onto them without a thought, memory, sound, or action making him stumble and lose hold of the warmness clenched tightly in his suddenly shaking fingers.

Sleep is fitful that night, bright splashes of memories continuously sliding down the insides of his eyelids in the most disturbing ways. Brendon wakes up Saturday with a headache because of his lack of rest. He thinks about calling-in for his afternoon shift the first half of the day but decides against it. If he calls-in, Gabe’ll show up on his doorstep with over-the-counter sleep aids, soup, prescription sleep aids, and a bottle of tequila before shoving past him and setting everything up on the kitchen counter so he can make Brendon pick his poison.

He appreciates Gabe’s concern, really he does, but he’s used to this by now. He’s fucked up. Nothing’s going to change that, and the fact that he’s spent years, until recently, killing marks for a price - and one hell of a good reason - hasn’t helped matters any. He deserves the sleeplessness and the memories, amongst all the other things that try like the devil to devour him whole. 

Frank texts him around lunch time, and Brendon ignores it until he’s on the bus waiting for it to drop him off at the stop closest to the Moxie. Once he reads the text, Brendon sends a reply and apologizes for being dour; he’s having a sour patch type of day. Frank replies back asking if he can do anything, and Brendon shakes his head while replying, even though he knows Frank can’t possibly see him.

The bus drops him off on time. Brendon clocks in and gets stuck on the dance side of the bar because Shawn begged-off so he could take his girlfriend to a play at the Performing Arts Center. Usually the dance club doesn’t get loud until seven-ish, but it’s Saturday, and the parties start early.

By the time midnight finally shows up, Brendon’s headache is threatening to slide down his neck to strangle him to death. He’s willing to let it, if it means the pain will leave him alone. Gabe’s been out all night, business to see to, so Victoria has been running things while Ryland picks up being the Floor Manager for the night. Without Gabe hanging about, Brendon can’t just bail early, even if he wants to punch some of the rich kids spending Daddy’s money who like to populate the dancefloor’s bar area.

The club doesn’t close untill two a.m., but after midnight, the crowds usually thin, and Cathy should be able to cover the bar without him. He’s in the break room, leaning his head against the cool, cool metal of his locker when there’s the tiny sound of tapping on the staff door. Frank’s standing at the entrance, one hand shoved into a front pocket of his jeans while the other rests lightly against the door jam.

“I thought you might like a ride home. Your last text sounded painful when I read it.”

Brendon just nods. He’s not even thinking about the fact that he doesn’t feel like walking the extra blocks home. He’s either going to have to suck it up and walk from where Frank drops him off, or he’s going to have to tell Frank the truth, even though they haven’t even gone on their first official date yet. 

Frank helps him to the car when Brendon can’t see straight enough to walk in a steady line.

“You sure you’re alright?”

Brendon nods his head, then regrets the motion when sharp pain skitters across his nerve endings.

“I just need some sleep. I’ll be better tomorrow if I can push myself to sleep in.”

Frank doesn’t argue with him like Gabe would and just unlocks the Camry’s doors. Brendon dozes in the passenger seat during the drive. He struggles into wakefulness when Frank takes a turn a little too sharply. 

“I don’t live here.”

Sometimes, Brendon can be blunt. He doesn’t mean to be - well, okay, sometimes he does - but he doesn’t mean to be right now. He’s just so tired that he can’t really formulate a better course of action. Frank turns the Camry around in the apartment complex’s parking lot and stops at the entrance-slash-exit.

“Which way do I need to go?”

He doesn’t ask a million questions as to why Brendon’s already lying to him. If Brendon didn’t feel like he wanted to dig his own grave and lie down in the soil to die, he’d make Frank put the car in park so he could kiss him soundly.

“Right. Then left on Lackery Avenue. I live in the shitty part of the city. Cleery, complex B, apartment 403.”

Brendon’s words start to slur before he’s even finished speaking. and he’s back to cat-napping against the cool glass of the Camry’s passenger-side window without consciously meaning to do so. Frank parks in the cracked lot, and Brendon fights clumsily with his seat belt. Usually, he’s smoother than this; he has to be, but right now, he’s _so_ tired and achy. Frank comes around to the passenger side and fiddles with the catch in the seat belt for him. 

It isn’t until Frank’s whispering for Brendon to hand him his door key that Brendon realizes things are about to go pear up. Not only is his apartment the embodiment of a rat hole, it’s only barely furnished. Frank’s going to think he’s crazy and drop Brendon like a piece of hot metal that’s been sitting out in the sun during the day in the height of summer’s sweltering gaze. There’s no point in stalling, so he searches for his key before handing it to Frank.

When they’re inside, the door closed and locked behind them, Frank goes still at Brendon’s side. Brendon just wants to sleep forever right about now. Forget this is happening. His voice is barely a whisper when it climbs past his lips.

“The less you have, the easier it is to let it go if something happens.”

Getting to his stack of milk crates takes a moment and when he gets there they topple to the ground when he fumbles to move them. Frank bends to collect the wire hangers that scatter across the almost non-existent carpet of the living area. He isn’t saying anything, and Brendon tries not to think about it. Once he has his pillow and sheet, he stumbles towards his mattress and sloppily pulls it down. 

“I feel like I’m missing something, but I’m going to wait ‘til morning to ask.”

Then, before Brendon can say or do anything, Frank strides to the mattress and sits down on the edge of it. A second after that, he scoots until he’s sitting with his back against the cracked spot in the wall. 

“Come on. I promise I won’t bite. Not tonight, and not even in the morning.”

He pats the black fabric of the fitted sheet once in the empty space between his stretched-out legs, and Brendon crawls onto the mattress, letting the pillow drop somewhere in the middle. He keeps the loose sheet clenched tightly in his right hand, the cloth twining in between his fingers. When he gets close enough, Frank kisses him slowly once before directing him to turn around. As soon as he’s settled, Frank slides calloused fingertips across Brendon’s still-clothed shoulders. He’s asleep before Frank’s even started to work out the tension creeping into the muscles at the base of his neck. 

There’s the noise of someone talking in hushed whispers when Brendon wakes up. He’s still in his clothes from the day before, cigarette smoke and the stale scent of spilled liquor clinging to his collar, but his shoes aren’t on his feet. If he squints, he can see them sitting together as a pair not far from his milk crate tower, the toes curling towards each other because they’re in proper position of left on left and right on right. 

The headache from earlier isn’t around anymore; there’s only the dull ache of pain fluttering about. Brendon cards fingers through his dirty hair and lets himself roll off the side of the mattress. He drags the pillow and sheet off as he goes. After the mattress is leaning against the wall again, he folds the sheet once he’s sniffed it in three places to make sure he doesn’t need to wash it yet. 

He’s not worried about the whispered conversation going on in his bathroom. Raging headache last night aside, there’s no way he’s going to forget that Frank’s here. The conversation has mostly sounded one-sided so far, which means Frank’s talking to someone on his cell phone, and Brendon doesn’t need to worry about a third person being in his apartment.

Things are going too fast for his liking, but he has no idea how to slow everything back down to its previous crawl. Sure, he’s been running into Frank for months, and they’ve already had sex enough times that Brendon can’t count them. That doesn’t mean he wants to have the talk they’re going to get into as soon as Frank asks. Brendon was hoping he’d have more time to coach himself on what to say. In much the same way Pete had him coached to talk about his family back when Brendon was a gawky teenager who’d just lost everything.

His socked feet shuffle across the barely there carpet, and it doesn’t take long for him to unstack the milk crates so the sheet and pillow can be placed back in their home. When he’s finished, he leans against the empty doorframe of the bathroom, watching Frank talk into his phone. Frank waves at him and pulls a tiny grimace of a smile across his lips when the speaker on the other end says something Brendon can barely catch as being dramatic.

Brendon decides to hunt for his phone and finds it close to his mattress, shoved up against the wall. It must have fallen out of his pocket during the night. When he flips it open, there’s a voice message from Gabe’s number. Brendon presses one and puts in his password. 

Gabe’s voice starts up the moment the mechanical female tone stops giving the time and date of when the message was received. Brendon lets himself lean against the wall next to his mattress and listens as Gabe swears in Spanish to every deity imaginable before starting in on a tirade that he’s going to drag Brendon’s ass to a doctor over the sleeplessness and headaches if he doesn’t do it himself the next time it happens. When he’s finished ranting, Gabe’s voice goes soft, and he tells Brendon not to come in for his shift today because they’ll cover it. He ends the call with a _’Get some rest, B, and come back for your shift on Tuesday. Call me if you need anything.’_

The message clicks to the end, and the mechanical female voice comes back to tell him his options. Brendon hits the center button without erasing or deleting it. He should either shower and dress for the day or do what exercising he can with Frank occupying the bathroom. He doesn’t really want to try pull ups on the bar he installed across the door frame of the bathroom while Frank’s there to gawk at him. Instead, he settles for doing push ups in the empty space where his mattress was less than an hour ago.

Frank comes out when Brendon’s changing out of his button down so he can tug on a simple, red t-shirt. At one time, he would have possibly owned a million and one t-shirts, but at the moment, he only owns three: one yellow, one black, and one red. The button downs and sleeveless undershirts have taken over his wardrobe. A button down is easier to take off if need-be, and people rarely give a second glance to a guy walking around in an undershirt, as opposed to a guy shirtless when it’s not the heat of summer.

“I was thinking lunch, and then, I have to drop by the comic book shop on Fifth Street because my friends are being dicks. Feel free to be an asshole to them if they start in on you for being imaginary.”

Brendon bends to pick up his shoes before finding a patch of wall to use as support while he tugs them on and laces them.

“You sure lunch is a good idea? I’m kinda a disaster, man. I don’t know if you want to deal with that.”

Frank shrugs and pilfers through Brendon’s fridge for a second, closing the door when he’s finished searching for nothing.

“We all got issues. I’m not going to pass judgement, unless you’re afraid of pixies and Casper the ghost; then, I’m sorry, all bets are off.”

Brendon tries not to laugh at the _’pixie’_ comment.

“Those fuckers are vicious. Don’t front.”

Frank laughs and tugs Brendon out of his apartment. In the Camry, Brendon leans forward and turns down the volume on the radio and gives the brief, Cliff’s Notes version of his life. He leaves out a whole novel’s worth of information, but the gist of the matter is relayed. Frank nods once while driving and talks about his mother’s death and how sometimes he thinks about moving out of her house but doesn’t because he can’t.

And just like that, Brendon’s not considered weak or fucked up. Well, not any more fucked up than anyone else. It can’t be that easy. Yet, all through lunch at a crappy diner with greasy food but no afternoon Church crowd, Frank doesn’t act like Brendon’s some glass vase sitting on the edge of a wobbly table. 

It’s refreshing.

After lunch, Frank takes them to the comic book shop on Fifth. It isn’t until he registers who’s behind the front counter that Brendon begins to worry. The bored-looking person sitting at the front, nose buried in the pages of some comic, turns out to be Mikey Way. Brendon’s going to bank on the fact that this means his Frank is the same Frank who punched Pete at a holiday party several years back after Mikey and Pete broke apart for the last time. Brendon wasn’t around when it happened; he was running a job as a favor for a friend of Pete’s. Gabe told him about it, months after the fact, and he’s still shocked Frank wasn’t roughed up in retaliation.

Mikey looks up from his spot in the comic to see who’s come into the shop and stares at Brendon for a second. He doesn’t glare, but he doesn’t look happy, either. Mikey’s brother wanders out and starts a rant on women in comic books, and Brendon does his best to nod along. The comic book shop is empty of customers at this hour. 

He’s expecting the flood of questions when they come; what he isn’t expecting is how unusual some of the subject matter is. Gerard keeps asking him questions about gender equality and the sad state of American film standards while Mikey keeps covertly trying to get Brendon to come out and say he works for the mob. 

Technically, he’s never worked for the mob, even if that’s the gist of what Pete’s organization _is_. He was freelance, willing to pick up jobs anywhere if the mark was devious enough to deserve to be knocked off and as long as the pay wasn’t peanuts.

Eventually, actual customers come in, and Frank drags him out of the shop. He doesn’t apologize for the weird as fuck questions, and they walk back to the Camry talking about weird shit and comics. Mikey Way aside, Brendon’s having a good day. It startles him when he realizes it. 

Truly good days are uncommon for him. 

The week flies by quickly. Wednesday before his shift starts, Brendon tells Gabe about Frank being the one to punch Pete at that party several years ago. Gabe almost falls off his office couch, laughing too damn hard for it to be healthy for him. After pronouncing them a _’sound match’_ , Gabe’s face goes serious for a moment, and he asks Brendon to be careful. 

To be safe. 

Friday, Brendon picks up a shift and ends up working from opening at eleven a.m. until midnight. Shawn’s sticking around with Victoria through closing so they don’t need him. Not when Marcy, Sasha, and several other servers are also hanging about. He catches the metro home and sends a random text about the movie that’s being advertised on the nearest billboard to Frank while he’s waiting.

They don’t text a million times a day; contact is still sporadic. Except now, Brendon has someone different in his phone who he can text or call. It’s a new experience getting to know Frank through badly misspelled texts and the occasional phone conversation. Besides the Moxie’s staff and Pete’s ilk, Brendon doesn’t really make friends or talk to people.

Frank replies with some douchey comment about bad horror films and drops in when he’s going to swing by Brendon’s place to pick him up in the morning. Unless he wants to bail. Brendon types back about not bailing and that he’s fine with the time. When he gets back to the apartment, he showers quickly and changes into a pair of boxers and an undershirt. Sleep takes some time to creep up on him, but when it does, he doesn’t snap awake every half hour from phantom screams pulling him out of his rest. 

Saturday passes in a blur of movement and a clash of sound that settles into his bones by the end of the night. The band they went to see wasn’t as good as he was expecting, but the opening act had a spectacular set that had the crowd twisting and writhing not even seconds into their first song. 

Frank’s wound up on the car ride home and asks if Brendon wants to stay at his place for the night. It’s closer. Brendon shrugs and tries not to bounce in the passenger seat. He’d rather not end the night just yet, but he’s not going to push anything.

They don’t even make it past the closed front door before they’re kissing, Brendon pressed up against the smooth wood while Frank does his best to steal his breath from his chest. Eventually, they end up stumbling to Frank’s room so they can tumble onto the rumpled covers of his unmade bed. Brendon’s sore as fuck from the pit, and Frank can’t be much better. 

It just makes the sensation that much more sought after. 

They fall asleep sweaty and in a tangle of limbs. Three hours later, Brendon wakes up from noises clawing divots into his skin. It’s easy to crawl out from under Frank’s arm and slip out of the bed. His left foot tangles up in his underwear when he steps on them in the dark, and Brendon bends to drag them on, doing his best not to hiss when his body protests the action.

Finding the bathroom is a lesson in trial and error. He opens three doors before hitting the jackpot. There’s no way he’s going to be able to sleep again for at least another hour. Cool water runs into the eggshell white basin of the sink when he twists the knob labeled with a thick **C** embossed on the top of it. The gurgling water drowns out the memory of dry, breathy gasps for air. 

He should leave. It wouldn’t be a hard task collecting his clothes and dressing before slipping out into the early morning. 

Brendon doesn’t know if he can do this. 

Part of him still wants to try, see where this is heading, but the rest of his thoughts keep lecturing him on how _Bad_ this idea has been from the start. There’s so many things that could go wrong. He’s already getting attached, and he doesn’t need another person to worry about leaving him - their fault or not. 

What if it isn’t worth it? 

He finds his jeans discarded outside of the bedroom and picks them up. His cell phone pops out of the back pocket and falls to the carpet with a soft thump. He decides to put his jeans on before bending to retrieve it. When he’s partially dressed, minus his shirts, socks, and shoes, he scoops up his phone and goes back to the bathroom.

There’s one missed text waiting for him - Gabe asking if he’s getting laid. Brendon presses the center button to reply with an inquiry - **u awk?**. His phone stays quiet in his hand. After a few more minutes of waiting, he sinks down to the cold tiles and leans against the side of the tub. There’s a bruise mottling his lower back, and it aches when his skin touches the tub. His grimace is cut off by the sound of his phone buzzing.

**shndt b y?**

Brendon doesn’t think about it when he scrolls through his contacts and hits call once Gabe’s name is highlighted. The moment Gabe picks up, he starts talking.

“How do people do this?”

Gabe’s voice is muffled and shot through with exhaustion. Brendon shouldn’t have called at this hour, but he doesn’t know what else to do.

“It’s a little early. How do people do what?”

Brendon sighs and stares at the tiles.

“Stay.”

He could elaborate, except Gabe doesn’t need an explanation. He knows Brendon has issues with this type of thing.

“You just gotta want to. There’s no advice to give you,niño. If you want to, you will, and eventually, you’ll forget you ever thought you needed to leave. Now, you gonna tell me how things went? No skipping the sex bits either.”

Gabe shocks a snort of laughter out of him and a tiny smile ghosts across his lips when he starts in on how great Saturday was. By the time he’s finishing up, Gabe’s probably already passed out on his couch with his phone lost in the cushions. Brendon presses the end button and rests his head against his knee for a moment before standing. He wants to try this - whatever _this_ is - with Frank and leaving will only break whatever fragile beginning they’ve been building up to. 

Frank’s shifted a little in his sleep and Brendon watches him. The thin strips of light from the street light filtering through the curtains makes it easy enough for him to see while he shucks his jeans. When he’s stripped down to only his boxers again, he crawls onto the bed and tries to fall back to sleep. Frank shuffles closer in his sleep and curls an arm around Brendon’s waist. His breathing is steady and warm against Brendon’s neck, and Brendon finds himself nodding off before he can do anything to fight it. 

Sunday is a lazy day. Brendon pokes around Frank’s kitchen for things to make a late breakfast with and comes out with half a gallon of soy milk that’s edging close to its expiration date, a box of Pop Tarts - cinnamon and brown sugar - that’s got two packs still sitting about, a carton of cage-free eggs that turns out to be empty when he opens it to see how many are left, and various items better suited for dinners or lunches. Pop Tarts it is then. 

Frank wanders into the kitchen about the time Brendon’s opening up his foil pack of Pop Tarts. He slides up behind Brendon and fishes out for himself before backing away enough to turn and lean against the cabinet next to where Brendon’s standing.

“Was thinking of swinging by the comic book shop a little later. Ray’s being passively pissy about being out last Sunday. Fair warning, Mikey thinks you’re a mob enforcer or some stupid shit like that. He said something about breaking kneecaps.”

Brendon almost chokes on his bite because, seriously? He’s not a mob enforcer. He’s killed people for money and a reason, not broken bones to prove a point or send a message. The kneecap thing was only once, and Brendon wasn’t about to let the asshole keep hitting on the serving lady at the holiday party Pete was hosting. It’s possible Mikey saw more than Brendon thought. That still doesn’t change the fact that he’s not Pete’s hired muscle. 

“I’m too short and adorable to be a goon. Those guys are supposed to be linebackers or something.”

Frank snorts and shoves Brendon’s shoulder.

“You mean you’re too thin and goofy-looking right?”

Brendon mock-grumbles something under his breath before smiling. 

They end up staying at the comic book shop longer than expected because Ray pulls Brendon into a discussion about music that lasts forty-five minutes and ends when something’s mentioned about cover songs. Somehow cover songs turns into talking about strippers, and Brendon doesn’t see what the issue is. Apparently, that’s a bad position to take, and Brendon listens to Gerard rant about women in society for another forty-five minutes while Frank laughs his ass off until Brendon mentions that Frank came into the Moxie the day he asked him out. 

Frank mutters something suspiciously enough like _’traitor’_ under his breath before jumping to some weirdly convoluted defense that has Gerard shaking his head and acting like a disapproving parent. Suddenly, the comic book store is stuffy and too crowded. Brendon has to leave because he’s remembering things best left forgotten. 

He’s leaning against the sun-warmed brick of the building when the door opens. Frank walks out, and they leave. Frank doesn’t mention him leaving abruptly, and Brendon doesn’t offer up any excuses or reasons. 

Spring tips fully into summer, and the heat starts to get unbearable. Brendon’s at the Moxie filling drink orders when Frank sits down at the bar. They’ve been dating for a few months. Brendon knows the exact number of days, but he’s trying to pretend he’s not creepy for knowing shit like that. 

Frank visits on his lunch breaks every few days. He’ll snag something to eat on the way back to his office. Gabe calls him a _‘Punk-Ass Romeo’_ when he’s around to loom about, but Frank just laughs at the nickname. 

“Move in with me.”

Brendon drops the damp cloth in his hand. It splats against the floor wetly when it lands. The noise reminds him of brains splattering against a wall. It’s not a comforting sound.

“What...?” Brendon knows his voice comes out weak. He hates being blindsided by shit. 

He bends to pick up the cloth and tries to catch his breath. The only person he’s ever lived with - not including his parents - was Gabe, and that lasted until Brendon was old enough to live on his own without anyone worrying about his ability to take care of himself.

“Last night, you mentioned your lease being up soon. Move in. I know this is really fucking soon, but your place should be condemned for how shitty it is. My mother’s house has three bedrooms. You don’t have to stake out mine with me if you don’t want to, though I won’t protest a little cohabitation.” Frank drops his voice into a sex growl, and Brendon tries not to laugh. Frank’s nervous, but pretending not to be. It’s comforting. “You can say no, but no complaining when the summer heat boils you alive in that death trap you live in right now.”

Marcy sets her tray on the bar top, waving at Frank in greeting while she relays drink orders for her table. It’s a welcome distraction. Brendon wants to say _‘yes’_. He’s been crashing at Frank’s place more than he should anyway. 

What could it hurt? 

The voice in his head is screaming _**EVERYTHING**_. It’s starting to give him a headache. Living with someone is not easy, and Brendon has issues. Saying _‘no’_ is a safer answer. 

“I won’t have to worry about bodies under the floorboards, will I?” 

Frank grins like an idiot when he replies. “I think you’d know by now if I were a serial killer. That’s a _‘yes’_ , right?” 

Brendon nods and tries not to think of worse case scenarios. Marcy smiles at him and takes her tray to her table. As soon as she’s away from the bar, Frank leans over the bar top - practically climbing it - and kisses Brendon.

A wolf-whistle breaks the moment. Frank pulls away and mutters something about having to get back to work before he hops off his bar stool. 

“I’ll text you when I’m off. No changing your mind.”

Laughter slides across the bar top; Brendon wipes at it. When he finally looks up, Gabe’s grinning at him. 

“This is a good thing kiddo, don’t stress it.” A hand ruffles his hair, and Brendon tries for irritated anger but falls short by about three blocks from the emotion.

“This is a _bad_ idea. I’m going to screw up and end up on a street corner. We haven’t even been seeing each other for two months.” 

Gabe snorts. “Just think of it as another challenge; you’ve always been a quick study, makes sense that shit would move fast for you. And I resent the street corner comment, niño. Like anyone in this joint wouldn’t put you up in their place forever if shit went sour. Hell, your room’s still the way you left it. Maybe a few more boxes in the closet covered by a foot of dust, but it hasn’t vanished, and it’s not going to.”

“If you tell me to have faith in my decisions, I’m going to punch you in the teeth.” Brendon’s not mad, even if his words roll off of his tongue in a biting manner. 

Gabe just laughs again. “You’re way too short, kiddo. Don’t worry about it. Finish your shift, and let your boyfriend pick you up afterwards. One day at a time.”

By the end of the month, Brendon’s shit settles morosely into one of Frank’s spare rooms. He never thought about how little he actually owns until he packed up. Gabe helped him trash the milk crates and donate the mattress to Good Will. 

It’s not like he needs them anymore.

Brendon’s specialty tools are shoved against the farthest corner of his closet - he doesn’t, technically, need them anymore, but he’s better off keeping them close. Frank’s curious about the black duffels, but he hasn’t asked yet. That’s an issue Brendon’s not sure how to tackle. It’s not like he can just burst out with _’Hey, guess what, I used to kill people for a living!’_ and expect to not be thrown out on his ass if Frank believes him.

Music filters past the open door to his _room_ , and he’s under no pretenses that he’s hiding. There’s some bastardized version of a house warming party going on in the living room. Gabe and Victoria are hanging around while Ryland watches the Moxie for a few hours. 

They’d brought a tiny wrapped box with them when they arrived; Brendon had stared at it. It would be just like them to stop at a pharmacy on the way over and buy a box of condoms. The paper wrapping is hideous: colors splattered about like some impressionistic blood stain. Instead of opening it, Brendon had set it aside. 

Condoms or not, presents were not a stipulation of the party. In many ways, it was supposed to be neutral ground, a place and time where Brendon’s friends could meet Frank’s. And since Brendon’s never had many friends, Gabe and Victoria are the only people from his side of the fence here. They won’t mind that he slipped away.

If Brendon were to dart out of his room to check on things, he’d wager that Victoria’s still flirting with Bob and Gabe’s distracting Mikey and Gerard with nonsense. Gabe had insisted on coming to the party, even if he couldn’t bring liquor because the event was dry, regardless of the fact that there was bound to be some tension since Pete is Gabe’s best friend. 

The Moxie isn’t part of the criminal underground; dirty money doesn’t change hands in Gabe’s club. He’s even gone so far as to not accept payment from known affiliates of Pete’s or anyone else who works under the table if he knows they deal in laundering. No jobs are solidified in his club, and Gabe likes to keep it that way. The cops can’t arrest him if no charges exist.

It’s how he’s stayed friends with Pete forever and possibly days before that. Brendon’s sure Mikey was told that when Pete first decided to tell him the whole sordid truth about being the head of an organized crime ring. 

Brendon sits on the edge of his unused bed and stares at the closed closet door. His weapons taunt him through plaster, wood, and drywall.

Fuck. What is he thinking? Moving in with Frank is a _BAD_ idea. If Pete couldn’t hold on to Mikey, how the fuck is Brendon supposed to keep Frank, especially when he finally stops lying by omission about his past?

A month of waking up to Frank laying next to him has been good. Real good. Even the days where Brendon can’t sleep and ends up downing five aspirin in as many hours to keep the headaches away while Frank frowns at him before they argue about doctor’s appointments are better than when he was alone. However, Brendon’s under no illusions that he’s fallen hard enough that he’s going to be fucked when this shakes apart. 

And it will; Brendon knows it. He doesn’t deserve to be happy. No matter how many times Gabe assures him that he’s allowed a little happiness.

“If you’re planning on ditching, do it now.”

Bob leans against the doorframe. He’s in plain clothes - flannel short-sleeve shirt and jeans - but his body language still screams _cop_ better than any uniform ever could. Brendon’s not afraid of him; he’s taken down bigger men before with less than the knife he’s carrying in his pocket.

“Frank’s distracted in the living room. He’ll get over this infatuation eventually. Just grab your shit and slip out the backdoor.”

Bob doesn’t like Brendon. He’s suspicious in a way ninety-nine percent of the precinct’s boys - and girls - aren’t. Brendon can’t say he blames Bob. He _is_ dangerous, retired or not. 

That doesn’t mean he enjoys being told what to do. 

“You’re fucking bad at this protector-friend thing, you know. Aren’t you supposed to threaten to maim me if I hurt him instead of trying to get me to leave? Which speaking of, you’ve had months to scare me off, why the Big Bad Cop routine now?”

Brendon’s standing without meaning to. Suddenly, he’s angrier than he’s been since the last time Pete talked down to him over quitting. His fingers curl together until he can feel his fingernails biting into the flesh of his palms.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting you to stick around. Everyone in your old apartment complex seems to think you’re some orphaned saint. Always away helping the needy. Your records are sealed tighter than the mission files of a covert military op. Only the best Pete’s blood-money can buy to shelter another hoodlum, I’d wager.”

Bob glares at him, and Brendon wants to punch him. Assaulting an off-duty officer would land him in jail, though, so he lets the pain of his clenched fists wash over his anger.

“Blood-money? Pete fucking Wentz didn’t adopt me. You and I both know the Moxie is clean. Gabe’s not a criminal. Though, I bet you’d just _love_ to go out there and arrest him on suspicion of conspiracy to something stupid just to taunt Pete...or me.” 

Brendon’s always known Pete pulled strings, favors, and bribed the fuck out of people to get Ryan and Spencer as his charges. Brendon was an afterthought, and it was mostly Gabe’s handy-work that got him adopted. Nate still drops by, occasionally, to check on him when he drives into the city to visit Gabe.

“I’ve already had to deal with one friend getting fucked over by Wentz and his business activities. Frank might be a little shit, but I’m not going to just stand around and watch this shit go down again. Scum are always scum. They never change.”

If Bob punches him, Brendon’s going to fight back, but until then he’s going to stand as still as possible and wait the fucker out.

“Then leave, because I’m not. While you’re at it; look up the Uries in Vegas. When you’re done, tell me why I’d have a Good Fucking Reason to work for Pete.”

Brendon stalks around Bob, walks down the hall, and slams the bathroom door when he steps across tiles into the quiet. Fuck. Brendon’s never done that. He’s never willingly given anyone his true last name. He’s been Brendon Saporta for over twelve years. 

It’s never mattered before.

But, Brendon wants Bob to search for the police reports. Wants Bob to recoil when he sees the crime scene photos. Brendon _wants_ Bob to read the course of events and realize that Pete only showed up because a friend of his got caught in the crossfire of a clusterfuck when he tried to save an innocent. Brendon was an accident. A kid in need of help, who Pete foisted off on someone else the first moment he could.

The reports have no mention of Jon being a for-hire contract killer who worked for Pete. Nor do they even so much as hint at the truth that Jon went to the murderers on purpose because, if he didn’t, Brendon was going to. All the paperwork says is that Brendon’s family was murdered because his brother has seen something sketchy, and the murderers were cleaning house, Brendon went missing - presumed dead - and the murderers turned on each other - killing another resident of the same duplex complex when they went after each other.

Cold water runs from the tap, and Brendon stares at his reflection in the mirror. There’s a knock on the door before it opens, slowly. Frank pops his head in.

“We’re about to watch _Blade Runner_. Gerard will cry if he has to hear that you still haven’t watched emotionally stunted Harrison Ford cap androids. Bob left. Apparently, he got called in. Let me guess, he gave you the _‘I Am The Terminator and Will Kill You Dead if You Hurt Him’_ speech?” 

Brendon could drag Frank into the bathroom, lock the door, and tell him everything. End the suspense. His shit could be packed in less than an hour. Gabe won’t mind if he crashes at his place until Brendon can find somewhere else to live. He could do that, but fuck, he’s weak. 

He doesn’t want to give this up yet.

“He did. Your maidenly virtue will forever be safe. I bet I could take him if you have some burning need to see a fight to the death over your hand.”

Frank snorts and shakes his head. He opens the door wider and tugs on Brendon’s shirt. Brendon cuts off the water. Frank drags him back into the living room after they take a tiny detour into the kitchen to make out.

Gabe arches an eyebrow at Brendon when they stumble into the room, asking if everything’s fine. The moment Gabe figures out what Bob said, Brendon’s going to have to bail him out of jail on aggravated assault charges. Brendon’s not going to say anything. He just shrugs, letting Frank pull him into his lap when Frank sits down on the sofa next to Gerard.

The movie’s a cross between boring and troubling. Brendon’s sure he’ll wake from nightmares again tonight. Gabe’s been telling him to go to therapy, talk about the shit that won’t get him dragged across state lines and in jail for murder in at least eight different nearby state jurisdictions. Brendon’s not going to pay a shrink high-dollar just to be told he has abandonment issues drowned in survivors’ guilt, sprinkled with a touch of anger, and topped with a cherry of self-loathing. And the _last_ thing he needs - wants - is to be put on medication for the sleeplessness. 

Pills make him feel like a zombie.

Halfway through, Victoria’s phone trills. She and Gabe end up leaving for the Moxie. Brendon waves bye to them when Gabe shakes his head the moment Brendon goes to climb off Frank’s lap. Ray shows up fifteen minutes later, complaining about closing the store while his asshole friends get to be lazy dicks.

Brendon falls asleep against Frank, listening to Gerard defend his movie choice against Ray’s growing number of reasons why they should have watched something else until he could show up.

Three weeks later, Bob walks into the Moxie right as Brendon’s starting his shift. Bob’s not in uniform. 

Sunlight filters in through the windows. Brendon wipes out glasses with a white rag and waits. Bob pulls out a folded up piece of copy paper and unfolds it before letting it drop to the bar top.

Brendon’s Sophomore yearbook photo stares up at him, black and white and grainy as shit. It’s a terrible shot; Brendon’s hair is horrible, and his glasses are hideous. That was before Gabe paid for Brendon’s Optometrist visits.

“You’re not lying.” 

It’s not a question. It’s also not an apology; Brendon wasn’t expecting one. He thinks about needling Bob over the issue for a second before shrugging the desire away. While a fight with someone who can hold their own would be promising, he doesn’t do that anymore.

“Are you on duty, or off? I’ll mix you a drink, on the house, if you won't arrest me for something dickish like bribing an officer.”

Bob grabs for the print out and folds it up before shoving it back in his pocket. He declines the drink and leaves without saying anything else.

Gabe sneaks up behind Brendon, and only years of training keep him from startling when Gabe speaks.

“What was that about? Do I need to threaten Bryar for you, kiddo?”

Gabe’s wearing a mask of humor, but Brendon can see that he’s worried, maybe even slightly pissed off.

“You’re not a mama bear protecting her cub. I handled it. There’s not going to be a problem. Lets drop it, okay?” 

Brendon knows Gabe well enough to know that he’s not going to give up until he has some idea of what’s just happened. How the hell Brendon ended up with someone else who cares about him will always astound him. 

“I promise, everything is fine. If Bryar tries anything, I’ll call you and you can drive by his place and slash his tires with your favorite letter-opener.”

Gabe ruffles his hair, and Brendon huffs. 

“There are health codes, asshole.”

Gabe just laughs at him. “We’re still going to talk about this later. Don’t think I’m going to let this go that easily.” He strides towards the break room when Victoria hollers for him in her best _’I’m Pissed At You, Asshole’_ voice.

After that, Bob doesn’t actively glare daggers at Brendon; they don’t become chummy-chummy besties forever and ever, but things are better than they were. Mikey still distrusts him, and Gerard’s wary. Ray, however, it seems, doesn’t give a fuck, and he’ll readily draw Brendon into conversations about Stargate or Jimi Hendrix on a regular basis.

On the nights Frank doesn’t pick him up from work, Gabe either drops him off - he’s already been shuttling Brendon to the Moxie for most of his shifts when he doesn’t send Victoria or Marcy because they live closer - when Brendon can’t get away with just walking to the nearest bus stop in the heat, or Gerard swings by after closing the comic shop when he has last shift and waits outside until Brendon clocks out. Brendon should just suck it up and buy a car, seeing as the metro doesn’t exactly run anywhere near where Frank lives. 

Where they live.

He knows how to drive and keeps his license current, even if he hasn’t actually used it in years. Gabe and Andy taught him what he didn’t already know, picking up where his parents left off when they died. Buying a car, however, is a giant step, one that solidifies just how stationery he’s become. 

How settled he’s become.

Brendon has trouble, sometimes, realizing that he lives in the suburbs with his boyfriend - his _serious_ boyfriend. The neighbors wave at him, and their kids don’t scatter when he walks by to collect the mail in the mornings. Some days, Brendon expects Rod Sterling to pop up and start narrating. There can’t be another explanation for everything, including the way he enjoys the feeling of being normal.

He and Frank argue about trivial things, have scorching make-up sex afterwards. They go to the grocery store and bicker about what to buy. No matter how foreign the concept still feels, Brendon’s happy. 

Truly happy.

He’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop. It worries him that it hasn’t yet.

Three days after the Fourth of July, Gerard’s driving him home when Brendon decides he needs to just suck it up and find some used piece of junk he can afford without having to finance it. Gabe pays him enough that Brendon can afford some rust bucket and liability insurance. He’s not touching his other bank accounts. Those are only for emergencies, like having to cut and run if things get too messy.

Gerard’s playing Metallica, the music thrumming in the background while he rambles about a new comic book idea. Brendon’s staring out the passenger-side window watching street lights blur by while Gerard talks. He’s thinking about the Fourth of July party they hosted in their backyard a few days ago. 

Frank had grilled veggie burgers, and they’d all told stories about assholes catching themselves on fire with sparklers. It had been fun when Mikey wasn’t glaring at him. Well, fun until Brendon had gone inside to get more cold sodas out of the fridge. A car backfired when it drove by, and Brendon found himself plastered against the wall dividing the kitchen from the hall, hand straying to his side grasping for the gun he doesn’t carry anymore.

Gerard had walked into the kitchen at that exact moment. How Brendon got out of that jam without having to explain is still a mystery. Gerard had just shrugged and went for the sodas to help Brendon take them outside. He didn’t ask or ramble. 

Since then, Brendon’s been expecting something, anything. If Mikey had witnessed Brendon becoming one with the wall, he would have been prodding Brendon to drop the regular person act. For reasons Brendon can’t figure out, Gerard hasn’t done any of that. It’s confusing as fuck because Gerard tends to be somewhat wary around him - it’s almost as if he’s worried Brendon’s going to snap or something - and rambles to cover-up his discomfort. 

Brendon doesn’t hurt anyone unless he has to, but that doesn’t explain why Gerard’s pretending nothing happened.

“If Jules needed a thin knife that wasn’t a switchblade, what would be good?” 

The answer to Gerard’s question slips out before Brendon can think about it. 

“Stiletto, unless you’re talking prison then a shiv will be the best they can do.” 

Gerard nods before pausing. “Wait... You don’t mean her shoes right? Like there’s an actual knife called a stiletto? Would she be strong enough to use piano wire?”

Brendon’s confused, he wasn’t exactly listening to Gerard’s comic ramble. Against his better judgement, he replies again.

“No, not her shoes, and yes, it’s an actual knife. Sharp as fuck if you care for them well. As for the piano wire, it would depend on if she’s hooking sharks or garroting someone...Why?”

Gerard shrugs when they stop at a red light. He turns in his seat enough to look at Brendon.

“Jules, she kills people, but only those who deserve it. I’m thinking her husband doesn’t know yet. She’s good at hiding it. I think the idea has promise.”

Brendon fucking wishes he’d been paying attention now. 

“She’s a serial killer?”

The light changes from red to green, and Gerard shakes his head. “No, I mean kinda, but she’s more like Uma in _Kill Bill_. Or maybe not Uma, but still an assassin for hire.”

_Fuck._

“But _Kill Bill_ already exists. Why revisit that?”

Brendon doesn’t want to be having this conversation. Gerard’s good at being unobservant on his best days, but he’s got a wild-as-fuck imagination that’s a big disadvantage when it comes to Brendon’s past occupation, especially at moments like this.

“Man, no. Not revisiting. Fuck, I’m not a hack. Remember Leon? I’m thinking like a mixing of Leon, The Bride, and several other hit man genre movie characters.”

 _‘Remember Leon?’_ is a fucking understatement. Brendon didn’t sleep for two days straight after that movie night. _The Professional_ hit too close to home for Brendon to feel comfortable. Sure, there were lots of differences, but not enough. He should have begged off once Ray had rambled about the premise, but Brendon had been stubborn. He could handle a movie.

Except, apparently, for how he couldn’t.

Frank tiptoed around him all weekend. It could have been the perfect slide into a new conversation about Brendon’s past, but it wasn’t. The moment had felt too raw and exposed for him to say anything.

If he never sees that fucking movie again, he’ll be happy. Fuck, Brendon doesn’t need help remembering his past. In another life, maybe he would have enjoyed all the violence and death. 

But not in this one.

Gerard pulls up to the curb in front of Frank’s mother’s house, and Brendon gets out.

“Thanks, Gee. Have fun with the idea.”

Yeah, Brendon’s going to have to buy his own car. Even if it’s just to keep away from Gerard’s newest idea until it grows dusty and Gerard decides he’d rather draw zombies than chicks who kill people for money and a reason. 

The heat of July turns into the swelter of August. Frank complains about the sun almost constantly. At least his car has air-conditioning, Brendon’s third-hand piece of shit car’s air compressor went out a week ago, and Brendon doesn’t exactly care enough to have it fixed. The car runs, and the windows roll down. Sweat has never been a foe of his, and as long as Gabe’s not complaining about Brendon’s appearance, he’s not going to bother.

He and Frank fought about it yesterday, and Brendon slept on the couch in the living room because going to the guest bedroom - that’s _technically_ his - had felt too final. He can’t help that he has issues actually fixing things that break. Frank thinks he’s being stubborn, and Brendon just can’t bring himself to care about it. 

His car is not Frank; it is not Gabe; it is _not_ the staff at the Moxie. It’s just a car. He can deal. He always has. 

A silver BMW is parked next to a black Porsche when he pulls into the employee lot at work. Brendon parks as far away from them as possible. He hasn’t seen Pete since his birthday party when the Moxie closed down early to throw him a belated, surprise party. 

He’s not necessarily looking forward to the next fifteen minutes. 

Spencer’s sitting at the bar when Brendon makes his way from the staff break room. The fizz of bubbles in his glass is telling; this is not a social call. Spencer likes to drink when he’s not on the job; if he’s nursing ginger-ale, then he hasn’t stopped by to complain about Ryan’s dating habits.

“Shawn’s going to cover you for a bit. Pete wants to talk to you. He’s where he usually is.” Spencer doesn’t so much as look up from his glass. 

Brendon doesn’t know what Spencer thinks he does, but Spencer should know for a fucking fact that it’s not what Brendon used to do. Only four people know about Brendon and his contracts. Andy because he trained Brendon to be the best he could be. Pete because he’s Pete, and he pulls the strings. Patrick because he’s Pete’s second in command, and it’s his job to know everything. And Gabe because he tried to talk Brendon out of it when Brendon pushed for it.

“Hi to you too, asshole. Do I at least get a hug before I’m summoned?”

Spencer sets his glass down on the bar top and slips off of his stool long enough to crush Brendon in a quick hug.

“Pete got himself engaged. We’re all a bit tense about it.”

Well, that’s surprising. After Mikey broke up with him, everyone was sure Pete would just bounce from date to date, hoping one day Mikey Way would forgive him and take him back. Something that’s never going to happen. Brendon can vouch for that.

“Who is it?”

Spencer shakes his head and shrugs. “He’s playing it close to his chest, just to be safe.”

Brendon nods and makes his way to Pete’s favorite booth. Pete’s a paranoid fucker at times. He used to have someone drop in on Mikey to make sure no one tried anything for a few years after they broke up the final time. For once, Brendon can understand one action of Pete’s. When Frank breaks up with him, Brendon’s not going to put it past himself to follow Frank for at least a while just to make sure he’s safe.

Patrick’s leaning against the stage chatting with two of the dancers. Brendon would bet a week’s pay that they’re talking about the complete discography of Prince over the decades. It’s that or a debate on how much street cred “Too Legit To Quit” has as a rap song.

Ryan’s sitting next to Pete. He slides out of the booth when Brendon walks up, goes to the bar, and sits next to Spencer. Sometimes, Brendon wonders why Ryan decided being a criminal was a good career choice. Ryan’s smart, pretentious yes, but still he’s smarter than some dime-store crook; why he’d ever want to do this always escapes Brendon. But then, Brendon’s a retired contract killer, he can’t really say anything. It's all very pot-kettle.

“I hear the Confetti Brigade should be summoned.”

Pete sets his glass down. Brendon stares at it; he could shatter it with one good throw. The shards would be thick and jagged. It wouldn’t be an ideal weapon against a gun, but defenseless flesh is a whole other matter.

“Yeah. Dude, it’s been months. Sit. You look like shit; is your asshole boyfriend fucking you up?”

Brendon sits on the edge of the booth’s padded, bench seat. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that Pete and Frank hate each other. Hell, Frank threatened to gut Pete with a beer bottle at Brendon’s birthday party, and Pete tried to punch Frank before Patrick was able to pull him away. 

“You’re busy; that’s fine. We’re good; Frank’s not _‘fucking me up’_. So, why the _not_ social visit? I have a shift.” 

Pete pulls his phone out of his pocket and slides it across the tabletop until it nudges Brendon’s fingers. The motion is like Deja Vu. In the past, when Pete needed Brendon to go somewhere and hit someone as a show of friendship to one of Pete’s contacts in other states - or when a contact in another state needed someone sketchy disposed of - there was never a folder of information slipped to him. It was always Pete’s cell phone showing him a picture. The information would come later - in the form of a thumb drive that Patrick would drop off that Brendon would return when he got back home. 

The picture is blurred, and it’s of Pete with some cute, little brunette.

“Press the arrow key to the right. Lea’s sweet, she knows about the business, and she’s okay with it. Her parents have a thorn in their side, though. It would be the perfect wedding present if that thorn was shaved off.”

Brendon stares at the face of an elderly, Asian man with wrinkles and hardly any hair left. The man can’t be younger than sixty. Brendon can’t fathom any reason for this man to be killed. Sure, looks are _always_ deceiving, but Brendon made it a fucking point when he started that he wasn’t going after people just because they were inconveniencing someone. 

“Why not ask Andy?”

Pete shakes his head. “Andy’s busy. I thought you might be getting restless with being a good, little wifey. You’re invited to the wedding regardless, but this would mean a lot to me.”

It would be easy as fuck to be angry with Pete. Brendon’s too tired today to get riled up. He presses the _end_ key and slides Pete’s phone back to him.

“Sorry, but I’m retired. That’s not going to change.”

If Pete’s mad at Brendon, he’s hiding it well. Or not well, but he’s not frowning or gritting his teeth like he did last time he asked and Brendon declined. Pete’s never owned Brendon, so he’s never really had the power to make Brendon jump for him.

“Fine, whatever. Gabe’s got your invitation. Thought you two might want to go together.”

Maybe Brendon spoke too soon about being too tired for anger to nip at his fingertips. He has to leave before he does something stupid. Patrick might have a soft spot for Brendon, but he’ll shoot him if Brendon goes for Pete’s throat.

“Fucking asshole, _fucking asshole_. Why does he always do this?” 

Brendon’s holed himself up in the staff break room. Everyone’s giving him a wide berth. He’s muttering to himself so he doesn’t punch the wall hard enough to break his hand. Why is it so hard to be with someone? Why do ninety percent of the people he knows, the people Frank knows, all claim that they’re bad for each other?

“Fucker asked you, didn’t he? I told him not to.”

Gabe slips into the room before shutting the door behind him. 

“I know you said _‘no’_ ; that doesn’t usually wind you up this badly.”

Brendon stops his pacing and drops to the staff couch. He perches on the edge and stares at his hands as they dangle from his knees.

“Did you open Pete’s invitation? It’s addressed to us. He didn’t even think that maybe you’d want to take Vicky-T or Ryland, hell, maybe even Nate if he’d be willing to drop-in.”

Gabe pulls the slightly crumpled envelope out of his back pocket and sits next to Brendon. He uses his thumb to break the seal, and sure enough, the invitation is for them only. No plus ones. 

October twelfth. About two months from now.

“Would Frank really want to go, kiddo?” 

Brendon stands and paces the length of the room. “That’s not the point. Why is everyone so sure we’re bad for each other and that we should be separated?”

Gabe answers a text. “Niño, not everyone thinks that. I _don’t_ think that. Pete and Frank would kill each other given a chance. Now, if you promise not to throttle me in a few minutes, I’m rescheduling your shift to tomorrow, Ryland needs help counting the inventory.”

Before Brendon can ask what-the-fuck game Gabe’s playing, Gabe’s already gotten up and left the room. When Brendon finally makes it out to the employee parking lot, the Porsche and the BMW are gone. 

For that matter, so is his shitty little compact. 

Frank’s Camry, however, is sitting in his parking space. Frank’s perched on the trunk typing out a text on his phone. He jumps from the trunk when he sees Brendon.

“I had her towed to Matt’s. He’s going to fix her up so you don’t melt before the snow can get here and keep you chill. I don’t want to fight about this anymore, unless it involves a bed and lots of naked, sweaty skin.”

Brendon leans against the side of the Camry’s heated frame and lets Frank crowd him against the driver’s side door.

“You didn’t have to. I’m not going to die of heat stroke if I can’t have the air cranked to a billion below zero. I grew up in the desert; the sun’s not going to kill me.”

Frank pokes him in the side before his fingers start to tug Brendon’s shirt - and undershirt - up so he can touch warm skin.

“I _know_ that, asshole. Maybe I wanted to do something nice for you. You don’t take care of yourself sometimes. It’s okay to put money into your investments-”

It’s hot as fuck outside, especially since they’re standing in a sunny spot. Brendon would like to feel offended that Frank did this without asking him first, but it’s just not possible. He bends slightly and kisses Frank to shut him up. Occasionally, Frank will slip into his work vocabulary. Brendon prefers making out to listening to boring, accounting firm jargon. Thankfully, that doesn’t happen often, mostly only when Frank skips work or leaves early.

“I didn’t think you had any more personal days? I can’t be a kept man if you’re fired.”

Frank pinches Brendon. The pain is small, but sharp. Frank, the fucker, did it on purpose. He knows what pain does to Brendon.

“My boss loves me? Well, he does, but the breaker flipped, and they couldn’t get the lights to come back on. I was on my way home when Gabe texted to ask where your junk heap should be towed. He might have mentioned that Wentz was here. I decided to surprise you.”

Brendon doesn’t want to be mad. Irritation still creeps up his arms.

“Fuck, Frank, you can’t just go behind my back.” 

“What the hell else am I supposed to do? We’ve already argued about that damn car too much for my liking. I called Gabe last night, and the towing thing was his idea, not mine.”

The _’be angry at him’_ is silent but still very much present. No wonder Gabe asked him not to get pissed. Fuck, Brendon’s surrounded by meddlers, assholes, and suspicious bastards. 

Yay him. 

“The GM shouldn’t have a crowd; I’ll buy you lunch, and we can pester Greta about her love life.” 

It’s a ploy to calm him down, and he takes the out. They can always fight about something else later, knowing their luck.

Frank kisses him one last time before backing away. Brendon walks around the front of the car and pops the passenger door the same time Frank slides into the driver’s seat. The door snicks closed behind him when Brendon finally gets in.

“Pete’s getting married. He had special invitations made up for some of us. He invited Gabe and I together, in one invitation.”

Brendon clicks his seat belt into the buckle and tries not to shift in his seat too much.

“You know I hate Wentz, right? I love you, but there ain’t no way in hell I’d be caught dead - or alive - at his wedding. Sorry, Bren. Though, I’m not surprised he’s being a dick about it. Don’t let that shit bother you too much.”

They’re not in traffic, surprisingly enough for the hour, and Brendon’s thoughts are suddenly everywhere at once. Right now would be the perfect time to mention Pete’s little job offer. Brendon was actually trying to gear himself up to explain everything to Frank. He’s dropped out of a moving car before; it would be easy to tuck and roll if it came to that. However, he’s stuck on what Frank just said.

They’ve been together since the middle of March, about five months or so. Neither of them has ever mentioned the word _love_ , until now. It’s always sounded too sappy in Brendon’s head, even if he’s felt that way for a while.

“I think you just lost any butch points you had with that.”

Frank doesn’t retract anything.

“I prefer not to lie to myself. Butch points are for pansies trying for hard-core. Black Cat Sounds is showcasing a thrash band tonight. We haven’t mingled in months, wanna go?”

Brendon nods because, _fuck_ , now that Frank’s mentioned it, he can feel the need for the violence of the crowd skating under the surface of his skin. The moment they park, he presses Frank against the driver’s side door and kisses him hard. 

Brendon’s not sure he can voice his feelings yet, but show-and-tell he can do. At this rate, they’re going to get arrested for public indecency, or Frank’s going to scrap their lunch plans in favor of driving them home. Either is fine with Brendon; maybe it’ll give him more time to let the words sink into his skull. 

Frank loves him, and Brendon’s in the same tangled-up position.

His boyfriend might not have issues with self-deception, but Brendon’s had years of living a double life. He’s not sure who he is or what he deserves anymore.

They get lunch anyway, and Frank has to pick him up from work three days in a row until Matt has Brendon’s car fixed. The August heat doesn’t end; Brendon can admit, if only to himself, that maybe it was a good thing he has a/c again.

The weekend before September steps in to take over, Victoria drags Gabe, Frank, and Brendon out shopping. The outing is clothed in the guise of suit-fittings for Gabe and Brendon. He knows it for what it really is: Victoria’s need to not think about her latest boyfriend jumping ship the moment she thought they were getting serious.

Frank’s along for the ride so he can mock Brendon’s choice in clothing. 

“Vicky-T, you are one hard task-mistress. Fuck, I need a break.”

Brendon’s being tugged down to the mall bench behind them before he even knows what’s happening. The familiar weight of Frank’s hands is the only reason he doesn’t lash out instinctually. An old couple walk by, and Frank flips them off when they glare at his insistence that Brendon make out with him right in the middle of the mall.

“You’re weak. It’s almost as if your mother never dragged you to a million shops before the new school year.”

Victoria doesn’t mean anything by it. They’re all sarcastic with each other; it’s never meant to hurt. Frank still stiffens a little under Brendon’s perch on his thighs. Brendon’s already asked off Thursday so he can go with Frank to the cemetery where his mother’s buried. Frank’s had the day of her death off since that first year. His boss never asks, just schedules Frank free that day.

Brendon whispers words against Frank’s neck. “We could leave, Frankie. Beg off early.” 

Frank shakes his head. Brendon slides off of his lap and tugs him in the direction of the restrooms.

“We’ll be right back.”

Gabe chuckles under his breath and leers at them. “If you get arrested for having sex in public, I’m not bailing your asses out.”

Brendon salutes Gabe before he drags Frank around the corner to where the restrooms are hiding. Frank punches the wall next to the water fountain. They don’t even make it to the privacy behind the swinging door, but at least, there are less eyes to watch them now.

“I _hate_ this. It never gets better.” Frank’s words are thick and bitter. He slides down the wall and sits next to the water fountains, staring at his black and red Converses.

Brendon mimics the motion until he’s sitting right next to Frank, their bodies touching from shoulder to knee.

“No, it doesn’t. Not really, but you don’t have to deal alone.” 

Perhaps, he should have lied. Brendon can’t do that. November will be thirteen years since he lost his family, and January will be when he lost Jon. 

The rawness of the hurt scabs over, but the loss never dies.

Frank fumbles for his hand before linking their fingers together.

“I’m not going anywhere. I love you. If we’re lucky maybe I can talk Gabe into wearing lime to the wedding, Pete would have a heart attack.”

Brendon’s trying not to think about what he just said. His skin itches, and he’s worried as fuck. The last time he said _’I love you’_ , was to his mother right before he ran out the door to pick up candy at the convenience store near where they lived. Things didn’t turn out so well then. 

What if he’s misjudged everything, again?

He _has_ to tell Frank now. There’s no pretending the neon pink elephant standing around them doesn’t exist anymore. However, the mall is not an ideal place to tell the secrets he needs to spill. 

Thursday. 

Brendon will tell Frank then, before bed. That way when everything crumbles, Frank will be too tired to hit him. It’ll be a shitty way to end the day, but at least, this way, Brendon won’t be ruining anything good - besides their relationship, that is.

The thought hangs over his head the rest of the weekend and carries on into the new week. Brendon finds himself moody and depressed. Frank doesn’t call him on his slight retreat from constant chatter, but Gabe does. 

Wednesday, in the middle of his shift, Gabe pages Brendon to his office, shutting and locking the door behind him when Brendon slips in.

“What happened? Frank didn’t break up with you, did he?”

Brendon shoves his hands into his pants pockets and stares at a spot just to the left of Gabe.

“Not yet, but he will. I’m going to tell him. Gabe, what the fuck am I about to do? I’m going to ruin the first good thing that’s dropped into my lap in _years_. What is wrong with me? Everyone keeps secrets; why can’t this be one of those instances?”

Gabe leans against the side of his desk.

“Do you think you can bury this part of your past without it festering and coming back to bite you in the ass years from now? Also, there’s nothing wrong with you, niño. The compulsion to be honest is natural when you find the right person. Plus, I think you’re selling Frank short. I think, if you make it clear you’re out of the business completely, he’s not going to give a fuck. You weren’t out there whacking orphans or soccer moms for shits and giggles.”

Brendon wanders over to the couch Gabe keeps in his office and drops to the cushions. He buries his head in his hands.

“Yeah, because it’s just _that_ easy. At best, I’ll be single again. Knowing my luck, Frank will call Bob and have my ass arrested. And hell, I deserve it. May as well accept the inevitable, right? How would you react if you never knew?” 

Gabe pulls out of his lean, grabs the straight-back chair near his desk, and drags it closer to the couch before straddling it. The back is facing Brendon, and Gabe props his arms on the top of the wooden finish.

“I’d be pissed as fuck, but I wouldn’t toss you out on the street or call the police. You could always not say anything, kiddo. Leave the past behind you. Finally let it rest.”

Brendon watches Gabe for a second. It would be _so_ easy to hold his tongue and stay silent, but....

“I don’t think I can. I want this to be permanent. I can’t do that if I’m worried over what happens when Frank finds out. I just....what if he hates me after?”

Gabe shrugs his shoulders.

“I don’t know, Bren, but you’re not alone, okay. If Frank calls the cops, I’ll get ahold of Nate. He knows people, and you know my place is always open to you. I think the maid might be stealing the silverware - which is beside the point - but your room’s still yours if you ever need it.”

Brendon runs fingers through his hair before standing. “I need to get back on the floor; who knows how swamped with orders Sasha is. Thank you.”

 _’For caring’_ is on the tip of his tongue, but Brendon swallows the words down. He’s not that much of a sap; perhaps, he could have been if things had been different, but that never happened, so he’s stuck with what he knows in this life. It’s better than not having any emotions at all. 

Gabe smirks at him. “Good idea. Your break’s officially over then. Get out there and be a buena little worker bee for me.”

The night goes steady enough after that. Two new customers try to grope him. One makes out with the sticky surface of his table when he doesn’t take the hint after Brendon asks him to keep his hands to himself. The other apologizes before ordering three shots of tequila. Brendon doesn’t have issues with her or her friends the rest of the night.

There’s a slight breeze when he leaves. Fall is trying to stake its claim on the landscape. Brendon rolls down the windows of his car and lets the wind ruffle his hair during the drive home. The motion is calming.

Frank’s sitting on the living room sofa flipping through the pages of a thick photo album when Brendon gets in.

“I was a zombie for my tenth birthday. My mother spent three hours tearing holes into my clothes and applying makeup to my face, hands, and neck before the party started. She got fake blood on her favorite blouse. It was my fault; I squirmed when she told me not to, and it ruined the fabric. I was expecting to be grounded for misbehaving, but instead, she ripped the collar out and dressed up with me. I miss her so damn much.”

Brendon freezes at the arm of the sofa. He doesn’t know what to do.

“I got put in time-out on my tenth birthday for trampling the flowers our new neighbors planted near the dividing edge between our yard and theirs.”

He hasn’t thought of that day in ages. The memory of his father frowning at him and pointing to the corner while his mother apologized to Mr. Browning suddenly flashes brightly in his head. Mr. Browning hadn’t been happy, and Brendon spent the very next weekend with his mother planting a new batch of flowers that were being paid for by extra chores his father had him do.

Frank sets the photo album on the coffee table and stands. Brendon tugs him into a kiss when he goes by because it seems like the right thing to do. They cling to each other while Frank does his best to kiss Brendon within an inch of his life. 

After a minute or two, Frank pulls away some.

“I ordered pizza earlier. It’s in the kitchen. I’ll grab it and the beer; be right back.”

They eat their pizza in the living room. Frank leaves the photo album open on the coffee table. Occasionally, he flips a page by its corner with his paper towel and points to a picture with the bottom of his beer can. Brendon offers up memories in reply when he can come up with one without closing off.

Frank doesn’t push him. He never does, and they fall asleep against each other on the sofa around three a.m. Brendon wakes when Frank wriggles out of his arms to go piss. Brendon stumbles into the kitchen and starts the coffeemaker. Frank doesn’t say much when he finally wanders into the kitchen dressed in a new change of clothes. 

Brendon doesn’t know what to expect. Frank doesn’t usually interact with others on this day. He’d mentioned it a few weeks ago when Brendon asked if he needed to put in for the day off. Frank just shrugged and mumbled under his breath that it didn’t matter, he never really did much but sit at the cemetery for hours before coming home and passing out on the sofa after drinking a whole case of beer anyway. If Brendon wanted to be his shadow, Frank didn’t care.

When they finally make it outside, the day is overcast, and the wind does its best to break the stranglehold the heat has on the landscape around them. Frank spends four hours - maybe longer - sitting at his mother’s gravestone. Brendon sits on a bench nearby, watching from a safe distance wondering if he should go visit Jon’s grave or get up and join Frank at his mother’s plot. 

He decides against doing either. He hasn’t been here in years, even though he remembers exactly where Jon’s buried. He doesn’t feel like hurting himself needlessly today. Maybe he’ll drop by a little closer to Thanksgiving, thank Jon for saving his life, again. If nothing else, he can come back later and introduce himself to Frank’s mother if he’s not at Gabe’s drinking himself to death. 

Right now, however, is alone time between mother and son.

For the first time in ages, Brendon thinks about hopping a plane to Vegas so he can visit his family. It’s not exactly a sane thought. There’s no telling if there might still be anyone around who wants him dead for what he knows. It’s best to just not play with fire. William leaves flowers on the graves for Brendon when he visits the city on business, anyway.

Supper turns out to be greasy fries at a dive joint. Frank orders a pitcher of beer Brendon doesn’t touch. Someone has to be sober enough to drive home. The sun is beginning to set by the time they’re stumbling to Frank’s Camry.

“She would have liked you. She would have hit me with her crossword puzzle and told me to behave because you’re a great catch and that she’d string me up by my thumbs if I fucked up for stupid reasons.”

It’s the first Frank’s really spoken today that isn’t in monosyllables or vague muttering of unintelligible gibberish, and Brendon wants to feel warm and content about that, but he can’t. He’s about to fuck everything into shattered pieces. 

He’s pulling the Camry’s key from the ignition after clicking his seat belt to unbuckle himself when Frank unbuckles his own and crawls over the armrest to crowd Brendon against the driver’s side door. His hands are rough when he rucks up Brendon’s shirt.

“Thank you" is whispered against Brendon’s lips before Frank kisses him quick and dirty.

The Camry’s not exactly built for sex. There’s no room to really move. Brendon gropes for the door handle and pops the latch without thinking about it. They tumble out in a heap of limbs. Frank tries to glare at him and ends up laughing instead.

“You’re an asshole, Brendon.”

Brendon untangles himself from Frank and bounces to his feet, tugging Frank with him as he goes.

“Uh-huh, sex in your car is only possible if we magically turn into smurfs. I don’t care how slight we are, the front seat is not comfortable.”

Frank pushes Brendon against the locked front door when they get there and stretches up to nip at his bottom lip. “You didn’t say that last time.”

Brendon fishes around for his key and tries to unlock the door handle as quickly as he can. Frank pinches his side hard enough that Brendon has to rest his head against the door to keep from mauling Frank where the neighbors can see if they’re looking in the direction of the lit front porch.

“That’s because you didn’t give me a chance to, fucker. We have a bed inside. It likes us much better than the Camry’s front seats do.”

The moment they stumble past the threshold, Frank slams Brendon into the wall and starts unbuttoning his shirt. Under normal circumstances, Brendon would welcome the physical contact as a natural distraction from his own plans for the end of the day, but Frank’s current actions are such a one-eighty compared to his earlier ones that it’s worrying.

“Is everything okay? We don’t have to rush anything.”

Frank takes a step away from him. “I thought you enjoyed the intensity. You haven’t turned into a swooning maiden when I wasn’t looking, have you? Things are fine, so fucking fine you wouldn’t even believe.”

Frank’s voice thins out near the end of his last sentence. Brendon grabs for his hands when Frank goes for his shirt again. 

“I’m not going anywhere; you don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

God, Brendon wants to bang the back of his head against the wall he’s leaning against. He’s going to need a better brain-to-mouth filter one day. What the _fuck_ was he thinking saying that? It’s the truth, sure, but coupled with what he’s planning to tell Frank tonight, it’s the worse thing he could say.

Frank glares at him. “You’re damn right I don’t have anything to prove. I just _thought_ my boyfriend would want to fuck. I guess I was wrong. Fuck this shit; I’m going to shower.”

Brendon sags against the wall when Frank stalks off. Fuck, he shouldn’t have said a damn thing, but he couldn’t not. Frank doesn’t need to think that he has to thank Brendon for being a shoulder to lean on when things get tough. 

Damn, he could use a beer now.

The fridge has a whole case of Bud left untouched from their pillaging the night before. Brendon pilfers four and carries them into the living room with him. He’s just popping the tab of the first can when his cell phone buzzes with an incoming text.

**hw dd it g?**

Brendon shakes his head, and takes a swig of his beer before replying.

**hasn’t nt yt**

Once he’s done typing, he hits send and places his phone on the coffee table next to the beer cans. The tv remote is close enough to be inviting so Brendon snags it. He channel surfs for a few minutes before stopping on some random cable station, setting the remote down in the same spot it was earlier.

The moment the commercials end, he regrets his channel choice. A young Natalie Portman sits against the railing of apartment stairs. Brendon wants to laugh. What the fuck is his life that he can never get away from the shit that hurts the most? 

He chugs the rest of his first beer as quickly as he can before starting in on the second, setting it down when he’s halfway through it. It would be easy to just click the channel-up button on the remote when he leans forward to set his beer back down, but Brendon decides to pay closer attention than he did last time, memorize every shift in color and tone. 

He deserves to feel this shitty and uncomfortable; it’s only a fraction of the price he owes.

Natalie’s knocking on Jean Reno’s door, trying not to be frantic, when Frank walks into the living room to stand at the arm of the sofa.

“Why the fuck are you watching _The Professional_? It freaked you the fuck out last time. I was afraid you were going to crack and do something stupid.”

Brendon registers Frank’s words, but he has trouble replying; he’s a little too busy being tugged down into his memories to voice anything coherent. Suddenly, he’s back to the day his life went and truly got itself jacked. 

His mom had given him a ten-dollar bill and told him to go to the gas station to buy some candy so he’d be out of her hair while she finished up Thanksgiving dinner. His brothers were busy with his dad, and his sisters were helping his mother in the kitchen. The house was crammed as fuck, but that was the joy of it all. 

Brendon spent a good hour away before his footsteps took him back to the cluster of duplexes that signaled he was home. Most of the residents were gone for the holiday, except for the guy in the duplex across the street from where Brendon and his parents lived. Two unfamiliar cars were parked on the curb, and they confused him about as much as the blood spreading across the front steps from where his brother was slumped over at the top.

A tall guy dressed as a cop - but pulling at his collar like he wasn’t used to the uniform - stepped around where Brendon’s brother had been moments before and stared in his general direction as Brendon made a beeline for the duplex across the street, pretending he hadn’t seen the guy drag his brother into the house. Brendon had been terrified out of his skin when he knocked on Jon’s front door. 

He’d been so sure the tall guy was going to march across the street and drag him into his house and...well, Brendon hadn’t known what would happen after that, but his imagination had supplied him with a million different bloody scenarios. There was no way anyone else was alive. Brendon couldn’t fathom his mother, father, or anyone else surviving when there were no sounds coming from the duplex. It was quiet, as if the volume had been muted. 

The moment Jon opened the door, Brendon had slipped in without an invitation before sliding down the door and rambling about what he’d seen. That was the start of about two months where Brendon bounced from place to place in Vegas with Jon while he pulled long-distance jobs for Pete. Jon hadn’t wanted to teach Brendon any tricks of the trade, but Brendon had been a persistent little fuck until Jon gave in. 

“Already did that.”

Somehow, while Brendon’s been lost in his thoughts, Frank has cut off the tv and turned on the living room light. He’s perched on the edge of the coffee-table watching Brendon with a slight frown on his face. Brendon wills his phone to ring or for Frank’s to. Anything to keep himself from talking.

When nothing happens, Brendon reaches for his beer again. Frank snags his wrist before Brendon can grab it.

“What did you do that was stupid?”

It’s now or never. Brendon takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

“Jon worked contracts for Pete. Mostly long-distance shit. He was in Vegas for a handful of hits when the local mob went after my family. I showed up at his front door with a bag of candy, shaking like a leaf. He kept me safe while the assholes were looking for me when it was apparent they’d missed someone.” 

When Brendon finally decides to open his eyes again, Frank’s staring at him. “That’s not doing something stupid, Bren. That’s surviving.”

Brendon laughs. It’s this nasty sounding laugh that breaks and shatters in all the wrong places. “No, but asking him to teach me so I could go after the fuckers who-”

A cough lodges in his throat, and Frank finally lets him have the rest of his beer. Brendon drains it before Frank decides to take it away from him.

“Jon got himself killed because I went after them, anyways, and he pulled my ass out of the fire. Pete brought me home with him because of a promise he made to Jon but dropped me in Gabe’s lap the first chance he got.”

The can crunches in his grip when Brendon squeezes the aluminum too tightly. “I was a fucking mess and begged Pete to find me a teacher so I could fill Jon’s shoes. I was a stupid teenager with a hell of a lot of anger bubbling under the surface. Gabe tried to talk me out of it, but...”

Frank pops the tab on the third can of beer and chugs it. When he’s finished, he almost whispers, “You took his place?”

And that’s what Brendon was expecting. The distrust and the disgust. 

“Never innocents, only people who deserved it. The greedy and the perverse. Pete was my contact only. Well, he handled payment so I’d never have to meet anyone. I could be a ghost. I’ve never been on his payroll. I’d kill myself before I’d let myself become something that low. The volunteer work was only a partial cover. I really did spend months on end building houses for the homeless or knocking on doors trying to collect donations for shelters.”

Frank reaches for the last beer. “ _’Deserved it’_ , as in past tense?”

Brendon nods. “I quit. Last September. I was losing my mind or the little bit of it I have left that isn’t already bat-shit out there. So, I stopped, and Gabe gave me a full-time position at the Moxie.” 

Frank doesn’t say anything else. Brendon watches him drink from his beer slower this time. His hair’s still damp from the shower, and he’s not wearing a shirt with his black sweat pants. Brendon wants to taste the ink tracing Frank’s skin - the hidden tattoos that he usually covers up for work - but holds himself back because he doesn’t have that right anymore.

Any minute now, Frank’s going to officially kick him out. When the air around them stays silent for far too long, Brendon stands and moves around Frank. If he starts packing now, he can be at Gabe’s apartment before it’s officially Friday.

Instead of going straight for his black duffels, Brendon starts in the bathroom by scooping his toiletries up and dropping them into a spare, plastic grocery bag that’s kept in the bathroom just in case they need one for the mini trash can. It’s amazing how much shit he’s accumulated since he moved in. 

This is exactly why Brendon should have never moved out of his shitty apartment. At least there, he was under no illusions of what he should or should not want. He’s gotten used to having things, and now, he has to adjust to having nearly nothing again. 

It can’t be that hard, can it?

He’s bending to pick up a pair of jeans in their bedroom when Frank kicks them away.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Frank’s voice is loud, and Brendon doesn’t know what they’re fighting about because Frank only uses that tone when they’re arguing about something.

“I’m packing.”

Brendon tries not to sigh sadly when he straightens. He doesn’t really want to leave, but this is for the best. Frank can’t possibly care about him, anymore. Brendon’s sullied and dirty, just like Bob said he was when he cornered Brendon back in June. Frank’s strong, he’ll bounce back quicker than Brendon will. 

“Yeah, I can fucking see that, douche. What I want to know is: why the fuck are you packing?”

Frank grabs Brendon around the waist and spins him around so he’s facing Frank instead of the far wall of their bedroom. Brendon could fight the motion but doesn’t. When he finally raises his eyes from the floor, Frank’s glaring at him.

“I’m a bad person, Frank; you can’t possibly care about me anymore. I’ve KILLED people before. For money. I saw how you looked when I told you. It’s better this way. If you want to call Bob and have him arrest me, that’s okay too. I won’t fight it.” 

Apparently, something Brendon said is the wrong thing because Frank stares at him stunned for a minute before punching him in the chest, hard. Brendon’s knees buckle from the surprise of the hit more than anything else. 

It takes him a few moments to catch his breath.

Frank does nothing to help. He just stands in front of Brendon, staring down at him. 

“MOTHER FUCKER, I’m not calling Bob. When the fuck were you given unilateral decision making authority in this relationship? Is it even conceivable that I’m _fucking_ seething over the fact that Wentz didn’t have the good graces to tell a fucked up teenager _no_ to screwing up the rest of his life?”

It’s only after Frank finishes talking that he drops to his knees and reaches out to touch Brendon.

“I’m not apologizing for the punch, by the way; it’s the only thing I could think of to snap you out of the insanity. Because that’s what this is, Bren. Insanity. If I wanted you to leave, I would have said something in the living room. Saporta’s lucky he tried to stop your ass, or I’d be over there right now, demanding to know when he became so fucking stupid. Wentz I can understand, but Gabe’s better than that, thank fuck.”

Brendon wants to believe that Frank means what he’s saying. He’s having trouble with that, though. In every single scenario Brendon’s thought up since they moved in together, Frank never, _ever_ , lets him stay. Brendon’s _always_ cycled right back to square one. 

Being alone.

“Frankie, I’ve killed people and kept it from you for months.”

Frank fists one of his hands in the collar of Brendon’s shirt and hauls him closer. “Yeah, I heard you the first time, Polly. If I’m not mistaken, I also heard the whole, _’I quit’_ thing, as well. Unless you’re planning on going off the wagon any time soon, I don’t give a flying fuck about what’s in the past. Right now, I’m more concerned about this compulsion you seem to have regarding not fighting for the things you care about.”

Brendon lunges forward and kisses Frank before he can change his mind. Take back the things he said. 

It’s not that Brendon won’t fight for those who matter to him; it’s more along the lines of Brendon not feeling like he deserves the things he has now. Jon doesn’t get to have this, and neither do Brendon’s brothers and sisters. What gives him the right to be happy, when they can’t be? 

Frank surges into the kiss and knocks Brendon onto his back, pressing him into the floor with his weight. Brendon lets it happen. He could easily reverse their positions and straddle Frank’s thighs, but he’s too wrung out emotionally to put up much of a protest.

Frank lets the kiss taper off, moving down enough to rest his head against Brendon’s shirt collar. “I’m fucking exhausted. Today has been a bitch, and the floor’s uncomfortable as shit. I say the bed is a better option.”

Brendon stands when Frank crawls off of him and goes for the bedroom light. They’re naked in seconds, and Frank pulls Brendon onto the bed. Brendon’s small spoon tonight, it seems. He’s more than okay with this, even if Frank’s grip around his waist is almost painfully tight. 

The pressure is anchoring. 

Brendon falls asleep quicker than he expects. 

The bedside clock blinks _five a.m._ in red block font when a violent splash of color wakes him. Frank’s side of the bed is empty; the sheets are cool, but not chilled. Brendon swings his feet over the side of the bed, bends to snag his boxers from the floor, and goes in search of Frank.

What if he’s changed his mind and is in the process of packing up the rest of Brendon’s shit? Brendon doesn’t think that’s the case, but he’s still sleep-addled. His brain’s bound to concoct stupid, shitty worse-case scenarios at this hour of the morning. 

“You’re fucking lucky as fuck you didn’t have a hand in this, asshole. I’m not enthused about the whole not being told thing; I can understand it though.......No, I’m not happy he waited months to tell me, but I can get over that. What I can’t wrap my head around is why Wentz let him run off and become a fucking _hit man_ when he should have been in school. I don’t give a fuck how headstrong he is......you still tried to stop him. Pete fucking Wentz, did not. That fucking asshole, douchebag better hope I’m not alone in a room with him any time soon. I _will_ fuck him up if that happens, head of a mob house or not.”

Frank’s sitting at the kitchen table in his boxers talking on his cell phone. There’s only one person he could be talking to at this hour. 

Gabe. 

“I’m not a dumb-ass, Saporta. I think I can grasp the concept of keeping my fucking mouth shut...Good to know you’re finally threatening me if I hurt him. I was starting to worry that I didn’t matter enough to warrant the _’I will end you’_ speech. It makes me all warm and melty inside knowing you care.” 

The cell phone clatters to the tabletop when Frank drops it, after ending the call. “For having special training, you’re awfully bad at the ninja stealth, Bren.”

Brendon shrugs and walks over to the coffeemaker, freshly-perked coffee filling the pot almost to the brim. “Woke up alone.”

Which isn’t a new thing. Frank works from seven till five, five days a week. Brendon’s rolled over and found himself alone in bed enough times to be used to the experience. He’s just too raw this morning, bloody memories scrambling to tug him down into them once more.

“If you pour me a cup of coffee, I’ll blow you. You can pass out again afterwards, get a few more hours of sleep. You look like shit.”

Brendon tries not to laugh while he reaches for a coffee mug. “I can totally see how you’ve gotten all the ass you have, Frankie. Let me guess, your sweet-talk brings all the hotties to the yard.” 

When Brendon sets the coffee down in front of him, Frank scoots his chair back a few inches, giving him enough space to tug Brendon down until he’s straddling Frank’s thighs.

“Don’t hate on my skills; they’re proven to be flawless. You’re here aren’t you?”

Brendon can’t help but laugh a little. It’s always surprising how easy it is for Frank to do this to him. “Point. Though, if you keep up with the tugging me into your lap thing, we’re going to be on the floor instead. I’m taller than you, asshole. I don’t know why you never listen.” 

One of Frank’s hands smooths up Brendon’s back, cool fingertips leaving a trail of goose bumps as they travel upwards. “Maybe I just enjoy you looming over me.”

Brendon’s never really loomed much before, unless he was stooping to second-check a hit that needed up-close verification. Fuck, the last things Brendon wants to think about together are his past and Frank. He’d never, _ever_ , purposefully hurt Frank. And that’s not just because he’s retired. 

Frank cards his fingers through Brendon’s sleep-mussed hair before dragging him downward, closer. Their breaths mingle, slightly sour from the night before; Brendon doesn’t care. 

“I didn’t mean it like that. I _didn’t_. We’re going to talk more about this-”

Brendon shifts his head slightly - nodding without headbutting Frank needlessly - before closing the tiny, paper-thin gap between them. Frank’s mouth tastes like flat beer from the night before when Brendon kisses him. 

It’s not the worst thing in the world. 

“I know, but not right now?”

Frank gives him a serious look that breaks down into a wicked grin almost instantly. “No. Now off fucker, you’re heavy.”

“It’s your own fault, asshole. I can’t help that you’re smaller than me.”

Frank reaches out and snaps the elastic of Brendon’s boxers when he’s standing again.

“I’ll show you smaller.”

“Please, do.” Brendon laughs, and Frank crowds him against the table. The coffee cup wobbles but doesn’t spill when his hand bumps the warm, ceramic surface. However, the mug doesn’t last much longer than that. Frank pinches him hard enough to cause a full-body shudder, and Brendon's hand knocks into the cup a second time. It tips sideways, hot liquid spreading across the tabletop and barely missing Frank's phone as it cascades over the edge to drip onto the kitchen tiles.

“Motherfucker.”

Luckily, Brendon steps away quickly. Getting burned by scalding hot coffee is not on his to-do list. If he wanted that, he’d buy more coffee from Mcdonald's or any fast food chain.

Frank laughs at him, fondly. “Smooth moves, Bren. All flail.”

He’s still laughing as he pulls out dish towels from the proper drawer. One is thrown at Brendon’s head, and he catches it easily before turning to mop up the rapidly-cooling, brown mess that’s covering most of the table. 

Frank smiles. “Clean up time. I want you to know, this was not what I had in mind for this part of the morning, but you _do_ look good with a damp rag.”

“Suddenly, it’s perfectly clear why you drop by the Moxie so often. Perv.” Brendon doesn’t let any heat slip into his words. He answers Frank’s smile with one of his own. “Do we need to start roleplaying _‘The lonely bar fly at last call and the world-weary bartender who just needs to connect with someone’_?”

Frank sops up most of the coffee on the tiles with one dish towel and drops his spare on the rest of the spill while he moves back to the sink to wring out the one in his hands.

“Only if we get to play _’The rebel, guitar rock god with needs and the lead singer who panders to his whims_.”

Brendon walks to the kitchen sink and twists his towel until only random, stray drops plink against the stainless-steel. “Occasionally filling in for old friends when their bands drop by the city does not equate _‘rock god’_. Why are we using dish towels instead of paper towels, anyways? This is taking too long.”

“If you want to rape and pillage the rainforest, be my guest. We’re almost finished, and I’ll have just enough time to mourn the loss of my morning coffee before getting ready for the salt mines.”

Brendon snorts and goes back to the rest of the spill. “Yeah, because it’s _so_ difficult and time-consuming pouring yourself another cup. Your life is so hard. Let me weep into my hands over the injustice of it all.”

“I dare you to say that in front of Mikey or Gerard.” Frank grins at him before he drops the dish towel into the sink to join its sibling. 

“Not going to happen. I value my ears more than that.” It’s not that Brendon minds when he finds himself in the middle of a Way brothers intense conversation, but their obsession with coffee is extreme, and there will never be enough hours in the day for them to cover their epic one-true-love of the bitter, brown liquid. 

Also, Mikey’s not exactly Brendon’s biggest fan. Gerard might be less tentative around him now, but his brother still doesn’t like Brendon. The last thing Brendon needs is to give Mikey another reason to not like him.

Frank crowds him against the sink when he goes to drop his wet rag next to the others. “Just because you have some sort of vendetta against the stuff doesn’t mean you should take that aggression out on poor defenseless cups and the people who love them enough to wax poetically about them for hours on end.”

“For hours and _hours_ , Frank. Not even you are that strong.”

“Never said I was.” 

“Sabotage” rings out in the kitchen, and Frank curses under his breath. “Rain check on that blowjob.” 

“See, I knew you were just teasing.” Brendon smiles and watches Frank stride to his phone to cut off the damn _It’s time to fucking stop dicking around_ alarm that he sets every morning to pull himself out of distractions like sleep or lazy morning sex. Brendon follows him into their bedroom and has to step around his botched packing job from the night before while Frank dresses for the day. He’ll have to put everything up sooner rather than later, or he’s going to obsess about yesterday until he has to leave for his evening shift.

Frank surprises him by climbing across the rumpled covers of their unmade bed and tugging him down to the mattress.

“You’re thinking way too hard for the hour. Go back to sleep. I’ll see you before bed tonight. We’ll talk if you feel like it then.” To keep him from worrying about it, Frank kisses him soundly before slowly breaking away to finish looping his tie.

Most of September flies by that way. Brendon keeps tensing, waiting for the other shoe to drop; it never does. Frank asks him questions, and he answers them as truthfully as possible while leaving out the names of people who aren’t Gabe or Pete. 

It’s hard some days. Brendon finds himself staring at the closed closet door in the spare room at least once - sometimes twice - a week, wondering about his decisions. It doesn’t help that there’s been an increase in scuffles with the Leto family and Pete’s crew that makes him want to pull out his favorite pistol and check his registration information just in case. 

Brendon’s never been part of that battle. He doesn’t care if Jared and Pete kill each other. Their little feud confuses the fuck out of him. If they merged, the whole city would be worked more efficiently, but for some reason, they hate each other. It means there are cycles of violence that leave the city on edge and piss off the cops. 

Brendon stays out of it. 

He buys his shit at neutral, local shops, or he goes to the big chain stores. It’s not that he’s banished from the places that support the Leto’s. Brendon can go wherever the fuck he wants, but he prefers the places that stay out of the cross-fire. He has friends there - or acquaintances, really; friends are a bit harder for him to come by. He doesn’t support Pete’s cash flow, so there’s no reason to support Jared’s, either.

Gabe would be proud of him if he knew, considering that was one of the few lessons Brendon took to heart when he found himself under Gabe’s care. Don’t compound the problem. Stay out of the line of fire. Be legit. 

The bars are a different story all together. It’s hard to tell where their loyalties lie. Brendon’s gotten used to not digging for their loyalties. Clubs are easier to parse out, especially the ones with strippers and exotic dancers, but the bars want all the revenue they can get their hands on, and they don’t care who they cater to. He considers them opportunistic-neutrals because there’s no other label for them.

He runs into Shannon Leto a week after Mikey’s birthday party. It’s Brendon’s day off, and Frank’s working, so he’s alone in Wal-Mart pushing a squeaky cart down aisles while he searches for the things he needs. Shannon used to be a friend of sorts back when Brendon was a stupid eighteen year old with a chip on his shoulder trying his best to learn everything he could from Andy when he was between jobs. 

They met by accident, and their _’friendship’_ was a vindictive way to get back at the people in their lives who made them angry. Shannon’s as close to a neutral party as the brother of a mob boss can be. That doesn’t mean their paths have crossed exorbitantly since Brendon actively started killing people for money and was gone for months on end with charity groups helping disaster victims rebuild. Perhaps, he should have gotten back in touch since he retired, but with Frank, the Moxie, and his own personal issues, Brendon’s been too preoccupied to think about it.

“Word is you’ve settled down. I’m impressed.” Shannon’s voice sounds bland, bored. He’s alone, which isn’t surprising. For as long as Brendon’s known him, Shannon’s hated the detail his family has tried foisting on him. 

He can take care of himself. There were a few back alley fights the two of them got into when they were younger, and they both seemed to be on equal footing, even if Brendon’s twelve years younger.

“Impressed or jealous?” Brendon lets his question fall flat, allowing an air of not-caring to filter into his tone. 

“Both. I thought Wentz was the second worst cockblock to ever exist.”

A little, old lady glares and pushes her cart around them to get to an end-cap of hair color that will hopefully make her look ten years younger. Brendon doesn’t think the tacky box will help.

“Yeah, that hasn’t changed. Your brother still being a jackass?”

Shannon shrugs. “He asked me to jump in again, so I left for a year. He hasn’t said anything since I got back, yet.”

“Still a jackass then. Why _did_ you come back?”

Brendon pretends he doesn’t want to know the answer, but he does. Shannon always comes back for some reason or another, just like Brendon. A bottle of cheap shampoo catches the florescent lights, and the plastic glares bright for a moment; he grabs the bottle and puts it in his cart without thinking. Shannon shakes his head at Brendon’s choice before placing the shampoo back on the shelf, picking something pricier from the line of products and setting it where the cheaper bottle was.

“You still have shitty taste in hair care products, B. Nicole quit at GC, and Joel was being all _sad, puppy dog_ about it over text messages for several months, so I took over at the front desk for them. Mostly, I answer phones and process payments. It’s fucking easy as cake.”

Two more bottles take up space next to the expensive shampoo because of Shannon’s doing. Brendon thinks about setting them back on the shelf. He doesn’t need the high-dollar shit to keep his hair clean. 

“Not everyone has to have luxury-priced toiletries. I do fine with the cheap shit, thank you very much. I’ve been thinking about dropping by and seeing if I can con Benji into doing something freehand for me.” 

Shannon nearly drops his cell phone when he fumbles pulling it out of his pocket. “Holy fuck, you really did go and get yourself chained down, didn’t you? The twins have been trying for years to ink you, and you’ve always declined because you didn’t want to scare the church ladies, Mister Clean-cut, Goody-two-shoes, Upstanding Citizen, that you are.” 

The truth is more that Brendon didn’t want any identifiers marking his skin than caring about being presentable to church folk. He hasn’t believed in God since his family was murdered, and that never mattered to the various people he volunteered with, so why would a few swirls of color? Not that he ever told anyone his life story. They all just assumed he enjoyed providing for the needy and broken because it helped him with his own personal demons. 

Sometimes, it’s easier to let people assume whatever shit it is that they imagine instead of setting them straight.

It’s hard not laughing at Shannon’s words. _‘Goody-two-shoes’_ , yeah, right. Brendon wants to scoff, but that would lead to explaining half-truths, and Shannon’s smarter than anyone ever expects.

“Fuck you, when have I ever been an _‘upstanding citizen’_? I never had a reason to get anything before now, but Frank has ink, so why not?”

“Good point, you’re totally a punk, bastard who carries a grudge forever. You better have pictures. I need to know who passed the inspection process unscathed.”

A mother pushes her cart by them, quickly. Her young son clings to the grey metal at his side and sobs while she tries to calm him down, a soothing hand gently combing through messy curls. Brendon shakes his head and doesn’t think about families and children. He pointedly pushes back the faded memories of his own parents comforting him when he was little and scared of things that were too _big_ for him to comprehend at that age.

Toothpaste is next on his list, so he swings down the right aisle and grabs Frank’s favorite brand. Wispy thoughts keep trying to tangle up in his head. To keep them at bay, he fishes out his cell phone and tosses it to Shannon. It distracts the fucker long enough to keep Frank’s Crest from being exchanged for the most expensive tube on the shelf.

“You’re never short on the compliments, Leto. I don’t know why you don’t have a cult following with your sweet-talking ways.”

Shannon flips him off while he scrolls through Brendon’s meager collection of saved cell pictures with the other hand. There’s a handful of snapshots of Victoria and Ryland arguing in the break room at the Moxie and a few of Gabe staring at his office computer with his tie loose and his suit wrinkled. After that, there are about five of Frank. Maybe a single shot of a random billboard rounding out the folder; Brendon can’t remember if he deleted that one yet or not. 

“You seriously need to learn how to frame your shots better. You suck at photography. Frank looks like he’s a bit of an asshole; right up your alley.”

Brendon snaps forward and takes his phone back. “We both are; It works. Gabe likes him; Pete doesn’t.” His words are clipped, and Shannon shrugs and doesn’t push matters farther.

“Bring him with when you drop by Gemini Cartography. I bet you haven’t introduced him to Benji or Joel yet. You know they’ll kill you if you elope with the guy and never tell them.” 

It’s the truth. Somehow, Brendon’s been adopted by the other neutrals. Gabe’s always been nice to the businesses that have decided to opt-out of taking sides, but he doesn’t exactly play buddy-buddy with them. However, Brendon’s found himself spending time with the twins at GC, Greta and her staff at the GM, and until it closed, the coffee shop on Fifth Street whenever he’s been home long enough to catch his breath, not counting recently because he’s been caught up in his own head over moving on and, more recently, what to say to Frank since they got together.

None of them know about the contract killing; he plans on keeping it that way. He might not consider any of them true friends, but that’s more his fault than anything they’ve done or said. It’s best if they never know. Shannon would understand, but Greta wouldn’t.

“You just want them to ask embarrassing questions that I will never willingly answer.”

A guy in sweats runs into the cart and glares at Brendon while he’s stopped, reaching for deodorant. It’s not like he was trying to run the guy over. If he wanted to do that, he wouldn’t use a shopping cart. There’s not enough weight or speed to properly kill a person unless Brendon wants to knock the guy down, tip the cart over on him, and repeatedly shove on the cart until it bludgeons the guy to death.

“Comfortably Numb” tinnily plays for several seconds before Shannon pulls his phone out again. He doesn’t answer after glancing at the screen, so either he’s got a new text or it’s someone he doesn’t want to talk to. 

“Don’t tell me you’re already hiding from Jared.”

“Joel was wondering if I was coming back from my lunch break any time soon or if he needed to send a rescue squad after me.”

Brendon grabs the last thing on his mental list and steers his cart toward the checkout area. If he’s lucky maybe the self-service checkouts won’t be Out of Order this time. He’d rather not wait in line for an hour in the Twenty Items or Less lane just so twelve old ladies with eighty items can be checked out as quickly as possible.

“Why the fuck are you in Hell-mart for your lunch? Don’t tell me you’re stalking the day shift, stock boys, again.”

An employee wearing a blue polo shirt and carrying a walkie-talkie glares at Brendon’s cursing. 

“That happened _once_ and was your fault, anyways. People watching is fun when I’m bored. I do have to go, though. Don’t forget to stop in with Frank. I’m not above telling Joel and having the twins corner you at work.”

The twins would do just that. They’ve done it before when he’s forgotten to drop by after being away for too long. It’s actually surprising that they’ve put off checking up on him for so long. Shannon mumbles a _‘goodbye’_ before heading for the automatic exit doors.

Brendon doesn’t have any trouble with the self-checkout terminal, and he’s scanned out in less than five minutes. He spends the entire walk to his shitty car thinking about Shannon and the twins. Shannon’s a year older than his brother; yet, for some weird reason, he wants nothing to do with organized crime. Benji and Joel might have been petty-ante thieves when they were teenagers, but they’ve been straight since before Brendon met them. Their tattoo parlor is the crowning achievement of their hard work and perseverance. 

Shannon’s a good addition to Gemini Cartography. Knowing the twins, they’ll have him drawing abstract versions of dragons and phoenixes for the visual list of tat options in no time. 

There’s no doubt that Jared is either unhappy or will be, when he finds out. Until now, Shannon’s jobs have never put him as a solid neutral. That’s bound to piss his brother off. Knowing Shannon, that’s probably part of the reason he agreed to come home to help Benji and Joel.

It isn’t until the end of the month that Brendon remembers to bring up wanting a tattoo. He’s been busy trying to find a solid acoustic for Frank’s birthday amongst all the other everyday shit that comes up. Frank’s old guitar is, well, _old_ , and Brendon doesn’t know what else would be a good gift option. He, technically, has a month to find something, but planning ahead is better than waiting until the last moment.

Brendon just wants to show how invested he is. A box of random shit is too impersonal. It doesn’t bleed affection or say _anything_ , except maybe _’hey, I didn’t care enough to actually put any effort into this’_. 

Doing that is unacceptable.

An acquaintance in another city is helping him out because the only quality instrument shop in the area has connections to Pete, and there are lines he’s not going to cross, even if it’s for a good cause. 

How the hell he knows more than a handful of people is always surprising. The fact that those who do know him are fine with helping him out is even more of a shock. Maybe he should be trying harder to build friendships, but it’s difficult when he doesn’t think he deserves to have any. 

Frank’s changing into a long-sleeve, plaid button down when he comes back from brushing his teeth. They’re both off today, so they’re going out. They don’t have any plans yet, but Frank’s probably got a bar in mind for the end of the night.

“I was thinking of getting some ink. I know a place, just never had the time before.” Brendon doesn’t wait for Frank’s reaction. He’s in the process of buttoning his jeans when his boyfriend pokes him.

“You sure? I’m not going to talk you out of getting a tat, but those fuckers are _permanent_. They kinda stick with you forever.”

“No shit, permanent is kinda the point here, Frankie. It’s not like I have to worry about being in a line-up anymore, and I’ve always wanted one.”

Frank steps in front of him and pulls him down into a fierce kiss that’s more teeth than wet heat. When they part, Frank twists his fingers in Brendon’s hair and smiles wickedly. 

“I’m in, then. Fuck, you’re going to enjoy the pain, and I get to watch. It’s like Christmas has come early.”

They’ve talked about Brendon’s process when he used to go out on hits. The reasons for what he wears, and why his skin is a blank canvas, but until now, he hasn’t brought up wanting to mar his skin with ink. The more he thinks about it, the more he _wants_ it. The desire makes him feel weird and stretched thin in all the wrong places. He’s not used to having the freedom to do what he wants without having to think about the consequences. Frank’s helping him embrace the change, but it’s still uncomfortable feeling at the oddest of times.

“So where are we going, and how far away is it?” Frank cranks the ignition of his Camry and backs out of the driveway while Brendon’s trying to buckle his seat belt.

“Not far actually. You could walk from Greta’s diner or Ray’s comic book shop to Gemini Cartography. You probably already know where it is.”

Frank checks the rearview mirror and flicks his blinker to turn left at a red light. “Never gone in because I never had to. Matt would shit a brick if I found a new artist to cheat on him with.” 

The fact that Frank’s go-to mechanic also free-hands tattoos in his spare time still causes Brendon’s eyebrows to raise and his laughter to bubble up in his throat whenever Matt comes up in conversation.

“Fuck you for laughing, asshole. Do you know what you want?”

Brendon shakes his head, letting his hair poke into his face. It’s getting longer than what he’s used to, way past his old standard of upkeep.

“I’m going to let Benji do whatever he wants.”

Frank takes a turn sharper than usual, and Brendon stops peering out the passenger window long enough to glance at him.

“That’s...I don’t know if that’s stupid or brave, Bren. You trust a guy you never talk about to ink you? What if he fucks up?”

Okay, said that way, Brendon can see why Frank wouldn’t get it. There are still huge chunks of his past that he hasn’t mentioned. He’s much more comfortable listening to Frank tell stories about his friends and his own adventures in great detail than talking about the first time he met the twins or anything that comes after that.

“You’ll understand when you meet him and his brother. They take their work seriously.”

Frank doesn’t comment on Brendon’s word choice. He skips channels until he stops at a classic rock station playing “Career of Evil.” Brendon laughs without meaning to. He hasn’t heard this song in years; he barely remembers the lyrics enough to sing along with Frank.

By the time they park, the station’s already played “Big Balls,” “Dream On,” and “Another One Bites the Dust” before going to a commercial break. Even Freddie Mercury singing about people dropping dead can’t keep the smile off his face. 

It’s shaping up to be a good day. 

Not even Shannon greeting him with a _‘the snail has finally arrived’_ when they slip through the front door of GC can put off his happy mood. 

“Ha ha ha. Please tell me you’re not trying stand-up now? Frank, Shannon the dick who thinks he’s funny. Shannon, Frank.”

Shannon flips him off before nodding his head in acknowledgement at Frank. “Nice to meet you. You’re taller than the rumors.” He doesn’t give away where he heard said rumors, and Brendon’s about to ask when the opening chords of “Trampled Underfoot” slam through the parlor from the staff area. 

The music gets turned down after Shannon yells _‘we have customers, assholes’_ as loud as he can. Ian pops his curly head out of the staff room long enough to check for customers before vanishing again; the beaded curtain hanging over the entrance to the staff room sways. Brendon shakes his head and tries not to laugh. Of course Ian is working for Benji and Joel since the coffee shop went under. Cash works for Greta clearing tables so there’s no way in hell Ian would be far away.

“When did he hire in?”

Frank wanders off to check out the tattoo art taped to the wall to their right while Shannon shrugs. 

“He was here when I came back. Kid went and got certified to do piercings. Shocked the fuck out of me. I expected his platonic soul mate to be the one working here while Greta tries to fatten Ian up with baked goods at the GM when he shows up early for a shift.” 

“The world is a strange place.” Which isn’t a lie. Brendon’s been around long enough to witness that first-hand more than once. 

The phone at the tiny, front desk rings, and Shannon moves to answer it. Brendon takes three steps and leans against Frank while he stares at a shadowy outline of a bird in flight.

“This shit isn’t half bad. If I wasn’t sure that Matt would scoop out my eyes with a melon-baller just for looking, I’d pick something out for myself.”

“Trampled Underfoot” switches to “Black Dog,” and Brendon barely notices the sound of the beaded curtain clinking together.

“We don’t support client poaching. Gemini Cartography tries to not start feuds with other ink artists-”

“Bad blood spoils all the fun.” 

Benji and Joel are standing close, and Brendon didn’t even hear them. He’s getting soft, but that’s okay. It’s not like he’s going to take another contract ever again. He can afford to mellow out some. 

The twins look the same as ever, except for maybe more swirls of colorful ink tracing patches of skin that used to be empty of life. It’s good to see that they haven’t stopped finishing each other’s sentences. It makes them seem creepier than they are; it’s a good stage act.

“We were expecting you weeks ago. Were starting to think we’d have to kidnap you before you’d visit us-”

“Willingly. Joel already has plans drawn up. It’s been over a year.” 

“The gossip was _so_ wrong. You’re way taller than we were told. Frank, right?”

Frank nods and gives Brendon a confused look that has him shrugging in response. The twins are an acquired taste, much like the Way brothers. 

“I’d like to know who’s been spreading word that I’m a Munchkin. It would help me know who to punch in the teeth next time I see them.” Frank’s voice isn’t exactly angry, but he’s not happy with all the short comments, either. 

Brendon isn’t ready to point out that the evil gossip is probably Greta. She’s the only one who wouldn’t worry about Frank confronting them if they talked about Brendon finally getting involved with someone. 

Plus, knowing Greta, she didn’t mention more than the fact that Frank’s shorter than Brendon, and everyone else just assumed shorter meant _shorter_. He doesn’t know if he should be offended that Greta told everyone or heartened that he matters enough for her to mention Frank and his relationship status to everyone else.

“It’s impolite to reveal a source. Ask Brendon when you guys leave. I bet he has a pretty good guess. I’m Benji, and that’s Joel; the curly-haired hobbit in the back is Ian. You’ve already met Shannon. So I’m going to skip forward to the bit where I drag Brendon over to my work station.”

It’s been too long since Brendon’s dropped by. Benji’s somehow added to his collection of creepy dolls that perch on the corners of his materials cabinet.

“Frank, you can borrow my rolling stool.” Joel shoves the stool over before heading to the staff room. 

“Shannon mentioned something about free-hand? That still what you want?” Led Zeppelin gets switched for Atreyu, and Brendon tunes out the screaming so he can answer Benji’s question.

“Yeah, just make it matter.” 

Frank shakes his head at Brendon’s reply but doesn’t try to change his mind, he just sits on the edge of the rolling stool and glides it closer to where Brendon’s sitting.

“I can do that. Where?”

Brendon rolls up the sleeve covering his left arm, offering the bare skin to Benji for inspection. After that, time starts to bleed. Frank was right about the pain. It’s electric and almost too much, making things hard to concentrate on. He’s sure Benji laughs at him at least once for being distracted by the pain before launching into a story about when Brendon was younger and stupid as fuck.

Frank stays by his side and absent-mindedly smooths his fingers across Brendon’s right wrist, over and over again. They have to take a break once or twice, and Frank ends up standing at his right when Joel gets a walk-in wanting a tramp stamp of a faerie on her lower back.

When Benji’s finished, he wipes Brendon’s arm down one last time before letting him look at the ink skating across his skin. 

“You’ll have to come back for a few more sessions. Once for the rest of the outlining, another for the fill-in, and at least two more times after that for touch-ups and stylistic tweaks.”

Brendon finds himself nodding without really hearing the words. The tattoo crawling across the skin of his forearm is eerie and hurts to stare at. A skeletal row of piano keys curve with the natural line of his arm. Guitar strings hold the keys together haphazardly while tiny little wild flowers creep out of the cracks to bloom between the strings and the keys. 

It’s a vivid reminder of his past without being too literal. 

He hasn’t touched a piano since he was fifteen, and his guitar playing is sporadic, at best. Frank’s walked in on him borrowing his old acoustic three times since Brendon moved in. It’s never been a big deal, except for how it really is. There are days he misses music badly, but playing hurts more than only listening.

Fuck Benji for remembering the time the four of them got drunk together, and Brendon couldn’t help but mention how much he missed music and his family. 

Fuck him for doing exactly what Brendon asked him to. 

“I’m going to gauze the fucker now. I assume that Frank knows the proper care instructions for tats just in case you’ve tuned out our rants from the past, so I’m not going to trip into Nagging Nelly mode. Don’t be a fucking stranger, Brenny. We expect you to show up for more than touch-up work, asshole.”

“Thank you. I’d promise, but you know how it is.”

“Yeah, we know.”

Brendon’s still buzzing from the needles and the pain, but there’s no way he misses the underlying emotion threading through Benji’s words. Suddenly, he feels shitty for staying on the outside. Maybe he needs to start being better at friendships. Start actually trying to not close the world out. 

He’s more than likely to fail. However, if he never tries, he’ll never know. 

Shannon types in his debit card information, and Brendon mentally calculates how much money he has in his account. None of what’s in his visible account is blood-drenched; everything in it comes from the Moxie. These tattoo sessions are going to eat away at his funds. Brendon finds he doesn’t care. No matter how much thinking about the keys on his arm hurts, he doesn’t regret this decision. He never will. Maybe the art will help him move on.

_Maybe._

“I will drag you back here myself if I have to. There’s no reason to stay away now. Frank, you’re welcome to drop by, even when your boyfriend’s being a five-year old hiding from the world.” Shannon hands Brendon his debit card back and nods at Frank.

“Cheap shot, Leto. Cheap fucking shot.” Brendon goes for the front door without saying another word. He already feels anxious and scraped raw. Shannon doesn’t get to rub salt in open wounds when he has run away from his issues more times than Brendon ever will.

He doesn’t get to take the higher ground here. He just _doesn’t_.

Frank follows him outside and has to walk fast to keep up with him. “Okay, first off, you’re being a dick. Secondly, I thought you were against giving money to places that have ties to Pete or any other organized crime family. Thirdly, you need to _stop_.”

Brendon lets his steps slow to a halt. The sun weakly tries to shine through thick cloud cover and fails. Fall is officially taking over for summer. The seasons have changed, just like everything else around him. 

“Shannon’s neutral, like Gabe. Benji and Joel won’t ink mob men, and they’ve been friends with Shannon for years. It makes sense that he’d work with them.” Brendon’s shrug loses some of its meaning when he decides to take a step towards the GM since it’s just down the street a little ways, in the opposite direction of Frank’s Camry.

Frank follows him. He doesn’t ask Brendon to stop again, just falls into step next to him. “You’re _still_ being a dick. How many years have you known them, the guys I met today?” It’s almost as if Frank added the end of his sentence on purpose for some intent. Like he doesn’t think Brendon would know who he’s talking about. Who else would _them_ mean in context?

It aggravates him. His arm throbs, and the pain isn’t as welcome right now as it was when the day first started. Brendon doesn’t need a lecture.

“I never really stopped to count the years. Ten for Shannon; a little less for the twins. I think.”

Frank nods sharply before tugging Brendon toward the side of a building, out of the way of the sporadic foot traffic. 

“So, a decade, and you haven’t mentioned any of them to me. Not once. Yet, you trust one of them enough to just mark your flesh without any input from yourself. You do know, they gave you a reduced rate, right? Matt doesn’t do that for me, and I’ve never asked him to just freehand whatever for me. The only reason you don’t have friends is because of _you_. Fuck, Bren...”

Frank’s hand brushes the edge of the gauze wrapped around Brendon’s arm. “You haven’t even dropped by in over a year. And you could have. You fucking _should_ have. It’s not like we haven’t been in the area at all in the past six months. Whatever cold-turkey quitting scheme you have in your head is not healthy.”

Fuck this. Brendon already knows he’s a screwup. He doesn’t need to be reminded of the shit he obsesses over in his head a jillion times when he can’t sleep. 

Pressure slips up his neck to settle at the base of his skull. He’s been lucky lately to not have issues with the dull throb.

“So, it’s healthy to mask the withdrawal with distractions? I was under the impression it was better to acknowledge the issue and work towards eliminating the problem.” 

Frank clenches his fists. “You’re full of bullshit. People are not distractions. They cause them, yes, but they’re not things, Brendon. You can’t just use and abuse them. You also don’t have to be a jackass about it.”

“What the fuck am I supposed to do then, Frank? Do I just walk up to random strangers and act like a happy little puppy, all _be my bestest, special friend_? People leave. They get tired or pissed off, and they give up. They walk away.”

He’s angry, and he doesn’t want to be outside anymore. Frank doesn’t get it. Of course, he doesn’t. No one ever does. He actually has a group of friends he hasn’t had to work to find and keep. It’s easy to him.

Brendon pulls away from the brick and starts to walk towards the GM. Maybe, if he’s lucky, the place will be busy enough they’ll stop fighting. 

His headache is not pulling any punches. A bustling diner isn’t his favorite choice, but if they double back to Frank’s Camry, they’re going to continue arguing. It’s not something that’s high on his list for today’s activities.

Frank has to sprint to catch up with him, _again_. His left hand darts out, and his fingers wrap around Brendon’s right wrist. The pressure is just shy of being a vice-grip. It’s not a tug or a plea to slow down. 

“And they die, right? Pushing everyone away until you’re alone only facilitates the cycle. Do I have to lock you in the bedroom closet for a day while I sit on the other side rambling about how friendships are messy but ultimately worth more than a pirate ship full of Spanish Galleons to Jack Sparrow?”

Brendon nearly trips when he slows down to stare at Frank. It’s always painful remembering that he doesn’t have much of a family anymore - excluding Gabe, the staff at the Moxie, and Frank. He tries to regain his composure by raising an eyebrow and saying something tool-ish. 

“Spoken from experience?”

Frank twists and punches Brendon in the arm. There’s no sting following the action; Frank wasn’t trying for damage. Brendon mentally wonders how he ever got to this place in his life where someone could touch him like that - fake punch or real - and not get laid-out on the concrete of the sidewalk, bleeding from a split lip or fractured jaw. 

“You’re not the only person who corners the market on survivor’s guilt and missing a parent. After...well, just _after_ , I spent three months drunk and barely surviving at work - avoiding the guys - before Gerard staged an intervention. Jesus fucking Christ, I swear he rambled about pirates and friendship for three fucking hours straight before switching to skeletons hiding in the closet I was locked in wanting to be my friend. Thank fuck I’ve never been petrified of the dark.”

Brendon nods and steps closer to Frank as they walk. A pair of Barbie-blonde women jog passed. Gerard has this tendency to come up with the most warped and creepy storylines known to man. Brendon’s witnessed many things, and yet, some of Gerard’s panels speak of grisly events not even Brendon’s seen. Things he’s better off not experiencing first-hand.

The door to the GM flies open when they get close to it. A middle-aged man with a toddler slip out. The man gives them a sidelong look and ushers the little girl away from them. They’d never hurt a child, but the guy doesn’t seem to think that. 

Frank mutters _‘fucking asshole’_ under his breath, poking Brendon to go in first while he holds the glass door open. There’s still tension in his jaw. They’re not finished fighting. 

No one’s won the battle yet. 

They’re at a stalemate until another spark ignites the arguing. Brendon’s willing to take what he can get, even if part of him wants to push hard just to break something. He’s not stupid enough to fail in realizing that doing so could fuck up his relationship. Just because he believes he’ll ultimately end up alone doesn’t mean he wants to send Frank away anytime soon.

He wants this to work. They fight, they make up. It’s a cycle that has him happier than he’s been since he turned fourteen and got a skateboard for his birthday, even though he knew his parents thought he’d break the damn thing in a week - it took seven months before he accidentally cracked the board in half trying to be a daredevil.

Half the booths are empty inside the diner. Frank picks one in the middle of the line that’s near the windows, and Brendon slides across from him when Frank sits, being sure to take the side that gives him a good view of the door instead of sitting next to him. 

Frank laughs under his breath. “You should have joined up with the police. I fucking _swear_ Bob does the exact same thing whenever he gets to hang.” 

Brendon’s not the best fan of cops. He can handle Elaine, mostly because she works in the private sector now. P.I.s don’t have to wear a uniform, and he doesn’t have to flash back to the day his family got murdered when they talk or if she corners him at the GM to ask him questions about cases she has.

Darlene interrupts his thoughts by asking if they want the usual or something different. Frank answers _‘the usual’_ for the both of them. Darlene nods and shoves her order pad into the pocket of her apron without writing anything down.

Frank likes coming here. They never stray from what they normally get. Used to, Brendon would switch up what he bought because being too routine can get you noticed, make you memorable. While Greta would never suspect anything - never call the police to ask him questions because of suspicious behavior - it was easier to remember how not to order if he kept up the practice even on his down time.

However, with Frank, that old habit got discarded pretty quickly. Why try something you end up hating when you can stick to a tried-and-true favorite? The repeated process is not as stagnating as he expected. If he’s honest with himself, it feels good - comfortable - having this sort of routine.

There’s so many restrictions Brendon’s placed in his own life. Rules and lines. Paring those restrictions down to nearly nothing hasn’t been easy. The six months before Frank officially ended up in his permanent orbit was barely any time at all to adjust to a different lifestyle. 

To be honest, Brendon was half expecting he’d give in and go back to killing for money because that’s his skill-set. Something he can see the progress of. There are no two steps forward, a million backwards. No labyrinth of emotions and motivations to work through just to survive a single hour around normal people...

The sound of clinking draws his attention. Frank drinks from his coffee cup after Darlene sets the white mug in front of him. He looks good; Brendon is _so_ screwed. He can’t, for the life of him, figure out why the fuck Frank even likes him. 

They mesh well, but it’s an unlikely thing. 

Something he would have never thought to imagine on the bad days. Something he _still_ has trouble accepting on the bad days. 

His own coffee is hot and bitter when he takes a sip. Three packets of sugar later - the white packets of actual sugar, none of the fake shit that tastes wrong - it’s better-ish. Coffee’s not exactly his favorite drink choice, but it’s not as vile as Frank likes to mock him about.

The brown liquid isn’t as distracting as he wants it to be. Frank’s phone rings, and Brendon watches him type out a text reply. Brendon thinks about asking who Frank’s replying to and the wrong question slips from his lips instead.

“Why do you care?”

Frank sets his cup down and glances at him, eyebrows crinkling in confusion. “Specifics usually help, Bren. I’m not a mindreader, no matter what Mikey and Gerard think when they talk at me in their brother code of not-sentences.”

Brendon doesn’t actually knows the details for the question. He wasn’t planning on asking it, and the phrase is loaded. It means a fucking slew of things: why does Frank care about him, their relationship, how fucked up Brendon’s head is, his lack of friends, and a million other fill-in-the-blank phrases that he’s never going to voice unless his subconscious decides to be painfully blunt again.

He sets his own cup down and stares at the rippling liquid. 

“This.” 

It’s difficult trying to define what _this_ is. Brendon can’t. He never imagined he’d be lucky in relationships, even quit. Then Frank came along and changed shit, turning everything upside down in his wake. 

Logic and statistics tend to flit about in Brendon’s thoughts from time to time. Most relationships don’t last. Not even marriages anymore. If stable marriages fall to age and shit, how the hell do they even stand a chance?

He’s going to fucking screw up royally sooner or later. It’s inevitable. He doesn’t expect anything will be the same after that happens. Perhaps, he’ll move back in with Gabe, if he’s still single, and do _something_ to distract himself. 

Perhaps, he’ll do something else. He’s lived alone for years. It’s not as if he doesn’t have any clue how to survive by himself. He’d just....rather not.

Frank shrugs. “I dunno. You’re not going to listen right now if I say you matter to me. Bob likes to say I chase relationships when I’m not in one. I’m pretty _damn_ sure that’s what he thinks happened with us. I don’t give a fuck, you know, about what he thinks. Rushed as fuck or not, I want this to work, and I have no damn idea what you expect me to say that you’re actually going to believe.”

His jaw tightens, and Brendon tries not to read anything into it. Neither of them are any good at explaining their feelings - motivations. Gabe likes to call them the emotionally-stunted, incestuous Doublemint Twins whenever he hears Brendon solemnly retell their last fight or Frank calls him to go around Brendon so he can try to understand how to compromise on whatever argument they’re having. 

Brendon wants them to work. He just doesn’t know how to go about it.

Their orders thunk slightly against the pale tabletop, and he looks up to catch Greta smiling happily. She must have noticed them ordering and decided to give Darlene her break.

“The vegan pancakes with all natural syrup and the veggie omelette with no cheese.”

She’s not wearing an apron, and her hair isn’t up in a ponytail so it falls in golden waves across her shoulders. Her dress is spring blues and greens today. It looks nice and compliments her complexion. 

A guy in the corner asks for more coffee so she smiles again, saying “I’ll be back in a jiff” before snagging a coffee pot from the front counter and striding to the far table. She re-fills everyone’s cups and sets the mostly empty coffee pot on the counter. After that, she spends another three minutes collecting glasses for soda refills. 

Their food is always good. Greta would have gone out of business years ago if her menu was atrocious. Brendon’s had all of the vegetarian dishes; there’s not one he dislikes, though the breakfast plates have omelettes and waffles so he’s partial to them. Thankfully, the GM serves breakfast at any hour.

“Change of topic, who do I punch in the throat for telling your friends I’m the height of a Care Bear?” 

Frank cuts into his pancakes, and Brendon tries not to laugh. No one even so much as implied that Frank was _that_ short. However, it’s easier to zero in on the humor than trying to correct him about the friend thing. Doing so will only start another argument, and Frank does have a point.

Brendon’s willing to try to mend the bridges he never thought to build in the first place, the ones that apparently built themselves while he wasn’t looking. He’s sure he’ll fuck that up as well, but trying has to be something more than what he was doing.

“You’re not going to punch anyone.” Going for zen, nonchalance is hard when Frank’s narrowing his eyes at Brendon, and Greta’s walking up with a chair dragging behind her and a full pot of coffee in the other hand. He ends up setting his fork down so he doesn’t choke while snickering when Greta finally sets the coffee pot down in front of her and pulls the chair close enough for her to sit with them.

“Who’s not punching who?”

Greta tilts her head in inquiry, and her curls bounce. If Brendon had a thing for women, he thinks Greta would have been perfect for him, but Elaine would have murdered him for trying so it’s a good thing he’s not big on breasts and heels.

“ _Someone_ told Brendon’s friends at the tattoo parlor that I’m as tall as a Smurf.”

Frank stabs at a cut-up piece of soggy pancake. Greta shakes her head at Frank - Brendon catches the tiny shrug of her shoulders that means he was right in his assumptions on her gossiping ways - and shifts some in her chair when she notices the gauze on his arm. Brendon never rolled his sleeve back down; he was expecting her to notice eventually. 

“You finally got ink, Bren? I thought you weren’t talking to the guys, anymore.” 

Greta’s giving him this look, the same one he’s never been able to decipher whenever he swings around to the GM. It’s got to be part worry, part resignation, and part exasperation. There’s no way to know for sure without asking. He hasn’t before, and he’s not going to now. 

“I’m glad you made up. They’ve missed having you around. Second-hand information isn’t the same as first-hand friendship.”

Frank sets down his fork and uses his napkin before swigging from his coffee. “What happened, anyways? Asshole, won’t tell me what pushed him away for a year that apparently wouldn’t keep him from letting _Benji_ ink anything he wanted on his skin.”

Greta shrugs. She’s not looking at Brendon, and Frank doesn’t seem to care about who slighted his stature anymore. 

“Whatever stupid shit guys fight about. I never asked.”

It’s not an answer. Not really, but Frank doesn’t need one. He already knows why Brendon cut himself off. He doesn’t need to hear about how fucked-up Brendon is when dealing with people. That fact isn’t hard to notice; no reason to relive the idiocy again.

The door opens, and the bell hanging over the edge of the doorframe jingles. Greta cheerfully greets the couple walking in while Darlene sweeps by with menus for the table they choose.

Her chair scrapes across the faded tiles when she slides it under the table near them. “I have some paperwork that will hide itself under my desk calendar if I don’t go finish it. Bren, I’m glad to hear you’re mending fences. Frank, I’m sorry about the Smurf thing. Enjoy the rest of your meal. Bye, guys.” 

She waves, and her dress sways as she goes back to her office. Brendon finishes his omelette while Frank polishes off the rest of his pancakes. They don’t really talk. However, the silence isn’t unbearable. Neither of them has to ramble to fill up the space anymore. 

The companionable spirit is fragile. A delicate thing of spun candy floss and blown glass. One wrong word will send everything shivering into a trillion tiny fractures. He mentioned it once to Gabe and got a shrug in return. Apparently, all relationships feel that way when you fight with someone you care about. 

After they pay, they walk to the comic book shop. Frank wanders off to ask Mikey about something. Brendon beelines it back outside when he sees the stack of dvd cases sitting next to the laptop covered in batman stickers that’s on the front counter near the register. Gerard’s researching movies for his comic panels, it seems. 

_The Mechanic_ , _Colombiana_ , _Smokin’ Aces_ , _Kill Bill_ , _Collateral_ , _The Whole Nine Yards_ , _Pulp Fiction_ , and a few other titles that make him uneasy are enough to get him moving. The last thing he wants right now is to be pulled into a discussion about Hollywood hit man movies with Gerard again. 

_The Professional_ dvd case sitting at the top of the stack might be the biggest reason he flees. That damn movie is the bane of his existence. Brendon doesn’t think he could bear to hear Gerard expound on how badass Leon is. 

Too many bad memories want to surface just from seeing the title alone.

Instead of shoving the hurt down, he tugs out his cell phone and texts Frank from outside the shop. Perhaps, it’s wrong to leave his boyfriend alone for a few hours, but t’s not like Frank’s going to fault him; they don’t have to spend every waking moment together. Plus, Gemini Cartography isn’t far away, and there are people there who know about his past - minus the whole contract killer thing.

Maybe it’s time he apologized to them for being a selfish asshole. 

Gabe chuckles and pats him on the knee three days later when Brendon tells him about Frank and his shared off-day.

“My little tadpole is finally a full-grown frog prince. I’m so proud.” Gabe wipes a fake tear from his dry eyes, and Brendon mutters _fucking asshole_ under his breath. He’s grinning, though. For the first time, he’s more solid than he’s ever been as an adult. A life he never thought he could have is slowly becoming a reality. 

It’s hard as fuck.

“I’m going to fuck this up. I suck at people skills.”

Gabe shakes his head at Brendon’s words. “Nah, kiddo, you’re not. Not any worse than anyone else, that is. We all screw up. The thing is to realize you’ve fucked up and do something to right the situation. Also, you think I’d have someone with zero affinity with the public serve liquor to my customers? Bad customer service means less money. I’ll claim you as mine until the world stops spinning, kiddo, but a business is a business. If you sucked, you’d be working somewhere else.” 

Shawn walks into the staff break room to rummage in his locker for something. Gabe pats Brendon’s knee one more time before standing. 

“I have the best minions. They make me all the piles of dollar bills to swim in.” 

Shawn flips him off, and Brendon just shakes his head and laughs. He’s got a hell of a lot of work to do before he’s anywhere near solid, but he’s closer than he was. Family like Gabe and Frank help. Having friends - no matter how shaky the ground there feels - is another step forward.

Maybe one day his past won’t define everything he says and does. He’s actually looking forward to that, where before now, he never thought he’d ever get a chance. Never thought he’d ever want to move on.

He spends the rest of his shift thinking about random, positive things that could happen in the future. A customer grabs his ass, and Brendon spends three minutes explaining the house rules to the guy instead of getting violent. He still catalogues every single way he could use the guy’s beer bottle as a weapon, but that will never change. 

Some things never do.

Brendon’s working late so he doesn’t see much of Frank. The first few days of October fly by chilly and cool. On the seventh, Frank shows up on his lunch break with a grin on his face. He finds Brendon on the floor cleaning up a spill and hugs him from behind. 

Gabe doesn’t give a fuck about public displays of affection. Marcy’s boyfriend does the same thing when he comes in. As long as his staff isn’t disturbed for long or during a rush, he doesn’t care. Well, that’s always excluding vulgar behaviour, like sex in front of everyone. Brendon might be a bit of an exibitionist, but he’s not going to do something that stupid at work.

“Carter’s sick. My boss wants me to pick up the Morrow account” is whispered into his shoulder, and Brendon lets the mop sink to the bottom of the rolling bucket. 

He turns in Frank’s arms and kisses him. When they pull away from each other one of the customers claps. There are maybe five people here at this hour. No one cares that his boyfriend is here. 

“I’m surprised you’re not sick yet. I told you vitamin supplements are worth it.”

Frank calls him an asshole and mutters _‘yeah, yeah, yeah’_ under his breath. “It’s super late notice, but they can’t push back the days. I told him I’d give him my answer after lunch.”

The implications of Frank’s words finally sink in. Carter’s business trip was supposed to be from the ninth through the fourteenth. Frank bitched about it two weeks ago when he got passed up for the honors of working on the account. The fact that he’s here right now means he’s asking Brendon if he can go, even if he’s not being explicit about it.

It’s a no-brainer. Frank’s not going to the wedding - or the bachelor party - and Brendon can take care of himself. This is an opportunity Frank’s been hoping for.

“Why the fuck are you here, then? Go tell Suthers you’re in.”

Frank tackles him, and Brendon smiles when Frank whispers _‘I love you, Bren’_ against his neck.

“Do I need to find some Jell-o? Punk-ass Romeo, the Frog Prince has shit to do.” 

Gabe’s standing nearby with a clipboard in his hands and a smirk on his face. Frank flips him off, kissing Brendon quickly before backing away. 

“Always the asshole, Saporta. I’ll be up when you get home, Bren.” Frank leaves with a smile on his face, and Brendon finds his afternoon passes by in a blur.

He switches with Avery - who has just returned from medical leave - on the dance side around seven. The party over there isn’t as bouncing as usual. The air near the bar isn’t as dense as it usually gets during the busy nights. 

It’s a nice change. 

He serves drinks for over an hour. A chick in a neon pink halter-top hits on him outrageously, almost constantly. Her brown hair is straightened within an inch of its life, and her manicure is fastidiously done. She stinks of money and tropical fruit. She’s not taking no for an answer, and Brendon’s sure she’s going to follow him away from the bar when he goes to take his break.

Which she does, indeed, do when Cathy comes to give him his break before nine. He’s about to nicely steer her towards Dillon near the back exit when he’s bookended by two people.

“Brenny, what would your boyfriend say.”

Benji grins at him while Joel turns to the chick with an apologetic look on his face.

“Sorry if he led you on dear, but he’s got plans tonight.”

She huffs and glares at Brendon before stomping off. 

“I don’t know what plans you’re talking about. I’m here until midnight.” 

The twins follow him to the break room. 

“According to your ex-parental figure, and I quote-”

“ _‘tell Brendon his shift ends early tonight. Go have fun assholes.’_ ”

Brendon pulls his coat off its hanger. He’s in the process of texting Frank when Joel steals his phone from him.

“Mr. Short, Feisty, and Taken, is already waiting for you-”

“Shannon texted him a couple of hours ago. We’re having a good, old-fashioned, group outing.”

With a shake of his head - he should have never handed Shannon his phone that day in Wal-Mart if he wanted to keep his or Frank’s cell numbers a secret - Brendon follows Benji and Joel outside. If he really wanted to say _‘no'_ , he would. Just...he’s trying to be a better friend. A better person, and the twins never plan boring shit. 

“Okay, but I need to know where I’m driving to.”

They’re in the parking lot, and the chill is almost biting at this hour. Joel parked his car next to Brendon’s. The shiny, black paint job makes his shitty junk-heap look pathetic parked next to it under the parking lot lights.

“Just follow us. We promise not to lose you. Frank would kill us.” 

Following Joel is always interesting. The guy doesn’t believe in going a normal route anywhere. He’s always about side streets and detours. He’ll probably navigate the streets in a way to throw off cops until the day he dies. Thankfully, this isn’t the first time Brendon’s tailed the twins. Sure, he was in a rental both times, but that doesn’t discredit anything.

When they park, there’s a tiny crowd of cars clustered around. Frank’s Camry is next to Greta’s Prius. The old bowling alley sign, with its missing letters and always dark _B_ , has been fixed up. Once he gets a chance to really look, the place doesn’t seem as run down as it used to.

Brendon remembers being nineteen and sitting behind the building getting drunk with Shannon and the twins for the first time. Being twenty-one and pissed at Gabe for giving him a year’s worth of advanced guitar lesson vouchers for his birthday, lighting one of the vouchers on fire with Shannon’s zippo while Benji and Joel bickered over who was going to ask out the new waitress at the coffee shop. There are also all the times they got run off by Old Man Hoppus for lottering.

“Mark’s been fixing the place up since his father died last year. He decided to come back home when the old man got sick. When they reopen, he’s going neutral.”

Shannon’s leaning against the side of his outdated-model Focus. The car’s clean but could use some work. Knowing Shannon, he’s more worried about the artwork stenciling the corners of the windows than he is of anything else. His words float up to mingle with the cigarette smoke hanging over his head.

“He wanted to get some old and new friends together before opening night. We thought we’d make it a group gathering. Mark’s as out of the loop as you’ve been.”

Frank kisses him as soon as Brendon finds him playing air hockey with Ray, causing the game to pause for a Boyfriend Attention Break. 

Anyone and everyone neutral Brendon can think of seems to be around. Mikey’s in a corner texting someone while Gerard’s flailing his arms at Elaine’s office aid, Tyler. They’re both, probably, in a _very_ deep conversation about art in modern America. 

Greta and Elaine are sitting next to each other, tying the laces of each other’s bowling shoes. Cash and Ian are playing a round of quarter tossing at a table near the far lanes. The inside is as neat as it was outside. The difference is light years away from what he remembers. There are no cracked ceiling tiles, no smell of cheap aerosol, no gum sticking to the soles of his shoes.

It’s almost as if he’s stepped into an episode of _The Twilight Zone_.

“Damn, look who went and grew up. Please, tell me you still wear the same size shoe? I’ve been saving these hideous monsters for you. No one else can handle them.” 

Brendon finds himself laughing as Mark hands him an updated pair of bowling shoes that are in a very bright shade of yellow and green. He’s surprised he hasn’t gone blind from staring at them. Mark hugs him quickly before backing away.

“It’s good to see you’re settling down. I know it must suck not getting out there and helping as much, but sometimes you have to do something for yourself. Believe me, I found out the hard way.”

“I...it’s not easy though. I keep thinking I’m going to fuck up.” Brendon doesn’t know why he says what he’s thinking around Mark. The guy’s always been on the edge of his world and somehow that’s made him easy to talk to on the rare occasions they’ve run into each other.

Mark nods like he knows exactly what Brendon’s talking about. “That never changes, man. You just backtrack like fuck if you screw up. Those who matter aren’t going to crucify you over it.”

“Sorry about your-”

Mark cuts him off before Brendon can say anything else. It’s actually a relief. He’s not good at condolences.

“Yeah...lets not talk about my old man tonight. I’m not reopening the place for him, so...lets just move on and have some fun, okay.”

Brendon shrugs, and Mark walks off, yelling something to Joel about not molesting the pinball machine as he wanders in the direction of the front counter.

By midnight, Brendon has lost three games. Frank is surprisingly good at bowling. He keeps crowding Brendon’s personal space trying to teach him techniques that Brendon has trouble following through with. If they weren’t surrounded by people who know both of them, he’d drag Frank to the bathroom for some private time, but he’s not going to do that.

They’d never live it down.

Mikey occasionally stares at him with confusion marring his facial features. It must be one hell of a puzzle for him to put together. The familiarity most of the neutrals greet Brendon with has to clash badly with Mikey’s mental thoughts of him being one of Pete’s lackeys.

Maybe tonight will help smooth things over with him - until Pete’s wedding rolls around, that is. He can only imagine the flack he’ll hear after the event when Mikey finds out that Brendon went. It’s not like he can not go. Pete is Gabe’s best friend and was Jon’s best friend. There was never an option on the table where he doesn’t attend.

Around twelve-thirty, he’s slumped against Frank, tired and exhausted but happy. They’re sitting next to each other on the bench. Frank’s untying his shoes when Shannon walks by and hands Brendon his phone before walking towards the exit. 

His outgoing texts folder is full of picture texts addressed to Gabe. All the pictures are saved in his picture folder, and they bear the mark of Shannon’s handy-work. The guy could have been a photographer if he’d been born to another family.

The last incoming text from Gabe is short and grammatically correct.

**Thanks for the slideshow updates, Shannon. Now give Brendon his phone back.**

Nine years ago, Gabe would have never been as nice as he is now. But then, he was always worried Shannon was just using Brendon, not that their friendship was a mutual way of being assholes to the rest of the world. Apparently, they’re settling into something different - better - now.

“Hey, Frank, I’ll drive Brenny home in his car. I think he’s about dead to the world. We can make a three car caravan.”

It takes a moment for Brendon to realize that he’s drifted off scrolling through the picture thumbnails that detail their night in vivid clarity. Ian flipping Cash off for being a dick. Greta and Elaine smiling at each other. Gerard getting a strike in the wrong lane. Several of Brendon and Frank being cute and couple-y together. The last two are of the twins shoving each other and Shannon glaring at the camera. Brendon’s willing to guess Benji stole the phone out of Shannon’s hand on purpose for that shot.

“I could just take him home. They wouldn’t tow his shit-heap, would they? I’m imagining no one would want to jack it. The thing’s already busted as fuck.” 

Frank hands him his own shoes, and Brendon goes about changing out of the yellow bowling shoes. He shouldn’t be tired. Frank’s been up longer than Brendon has, yet he seems fine. 

Maybe, slightly worn out, but that’s about it.

Benji ends up following them in Brendon’s car while Joel tails him. Frank has to bodily drag Brendon out of the Camry when they get home. Benji says something before laughing and suddenly they’re alone in the driveway, headlights painting the neighbor’s mailbox in yellow light as Joel pulls out, and turns to take a side street. 

They’re in front of the screen door when Brendon wraps his arms around Frank’s back and leans his head on Frank’s shoulder.

“Tonight was real, right? I’m not dreaming.”

Fingers slide through his hair. 

“So fucking real. Why don’t we go inside and sleep?”

Brendon nods and lets Frank drag him inside. He’s out the moment he lies down.

The eighth passes by uneventfully, and Frank wakes him up on the ninth with a blow job. An hour later, Brendon’s alone in their bedroom realizing he hasn’t been without Frank since March. A year ago, he was staring at the stain on the ceiling of his old apartment, and now he’s staring up at the ceiling of their bedroom, scanning for any blemishes to relate to his old apartment.

His shirts hang in Frank’s - their - closet, and there’s random shit of his littering the room. It’s obvious to everyone that he lives with Frank. They sleep together. They’re just...together. 

Frank being away doesn’t change that. 

He finds himself spending more time at work or at Gemini Cartography than is strictly necessary. No one calls him on being a wandering ghost. Frank texts as often as possible. Brendon mentally kicks himself for being stupid and missing someone who’s coming back to him. 

The fourteenth can’t show up fast enough.

Gabe officially hands the Moxie’s emergency keys to Ryland five hours before Pete’s bachelor party on the eleventh. Brendon doesn’t feel like schmoozing at a party that’s bound to be full of Pete’s favorite people, but Gabe’s not going to stray too far from him. They can survive together. 

The Roxette is classy, and Brendon stares at the neon sign when he climbs out of the taxi. Gabe’s driving tomorrow. Tonight it’s smarter to pay one of the city’s finest cabbies to do the work for them. 

When they finally make their way inside, Brendon gets a hug from Spencer, and Ryan nods at him before they vanish somewhere. The music is pounding, furious and electric. Gabe grabs a drink from a tray when a scantily-clad waitress walks by. 

He’s scoping out prospects even if he’s not going to abandon Brendon for a quick fuck in a bathroom stall. No one here is worth the momentary lapse in judgement. Gabe swore off fucking people with allegiances five years ago. Having flunkies attempt to rob the Moxie because Pete pissed them off by promoting someone else was the last straw laid across the camel’s already broken back.

Travis walks by and drags Gabe into a tight hug. Brendon’s not expecting the same treatment and isn’t disappointed when he’s proven right. He’s never spent much time getting to know all the people Gabe knows or knew growing up. To him, Travis is the owner of the Roxette and one of Pete’s people. 

That’s it.

Brendon’s cell rings with a text that he doesn’t check right away. Frank texted him while they were in the cab. He’s having dinner with a few accountants at the firm he’s visiting, so he’s busy for at least another hour, maybe longer. When a second text causes his phone to ring, he decides to see who’s trying to get his attention.

There’s one text from Nate and another from William. Both want him to be safe and watch after Gabe. Nate’s one of Gabe’s oldest friends, only second to Pete and maybe Travis. William is Gabe’s business partner. He does all of the leg work and traveling while Gabe sticks to running the Moxie at home. 

Nate texts Brendon about twice a month with random facts about shit and questions about his day. William texts less frequently and usually just sends a picture of whatever state he’s in. Both of them aren’t exactly the biggest fans of Pete, and they worry about Gabe fucking himself up trying to be impressive to people who could care less. People he should care less about.

When they finally run into Pete, he tries to con Brendon into one last job - the moment Gabe vanishes to ask Travis something - and Brendon walks away after talking over Pete, congratulating him one more time for tying the knot with someone who understands and apparently doesn’t care about the whole _mob_ thing. 

After that, he gets as drunk as possible and lets Gabe steer their conversations as they mingle. At least three people assume they’re dating. He laughs in their faces each time. It would be rude if Gabe wasn’t cracking up at his side. 

Patrick finds them in Travis’ office sipping from a bottle of José and laughing about shit that isn’t really funny. Instead of ratting them out, he sits across from them on the floor and reaches for the bottle. Brendon likes Patrick. The guy’s stiff at times, but he’s fair and thinks for himself. He’s not Pete’s guard dog. Well, he is, but it’s more complicated than that. 

Everything is always complicated.

After three passes of the bottle, he pulls out his cell and calls a cab for them. He’s gone to find Pete before Brendon can thank him. They miss the strippers and bachelor games. Pete’s not going to be happy they left early, but fuck it. 

Gabe’s not feeling the vibe, which is something Brendon’s never seen. He’d heard a rumor that Pete was angry with Gabe about something, however, taking stock in gossip isn’t something he does often. Gabe and Pete have been friends since before he was even born. Whatever it is, Brendon can’t fix it and he’s not going to try. 

It’s not his business anyway. 

They order Thai food when they get to Gabe’s apartment. The place is more like a loft. Most of the whole floor is his. Gabe was born into money, and he’s a shrewd businessman, so he lives comfortably. 

That had been one hell of a culture-shock when Brendon was younger. Going from parents who had to move into a duplex when he was twelve because of their house being foreclosed on to living with a guy who could afford a personal cook if he wanted one had been hard.

It’s easy to admit to himself that one of the major reasons he moved into his shitty apartment when he was twenty was to keep from turning into a snotty, rich brat. He also wanted to be alone and allowed to live his own life. 

Gabe has always meant well, but for the longest time, he hasn’t been one to agree with Brendon’s choice in occupation. The guitar lessons. Bartending school when he was twenty-three. Drum lessons the year before that. College courses. A gym membership. They all poked at long-term commitments, some unwanted seed being force-grown in the hopes of rooting. 

It was never about buying his love or contentment. Gabe wanted to show Brendon that there was more to the world than pretending to be Jon. Gabe wanted to give him a way out, hand him the tools to live without the ghosts that have haunted him for years. 

It just took forever to sink in.

Brendon’s been such a selfish fool for so damn long. Blind as fuck, too. He should thank Gabe for not giving up on his ass, but he’s drunk, and it’s easier to let the negativity chaff at his skin. It’s better than staring at a wall wondering if he’s done right by those he’s lost. He always comes out of those sessions worse for wear.

There’s old take-out on a table near the kitchen when they pass by it. 

“I had to fire the old maid, haven’t hired a new one, yet.” Gabe’s voice slurs only slightly. He holds his liquor well. 

“Like I give a fuck.” 

It’s the truth. Brendon could care less. Frank’s house isn’t the tidiest it could be. Brendon’s tiny closest room when he was a teenager wasn’t much better when he could get away with not cleaning it. Which wasn’t as common as he had hoped for when he was younger. 

Chores were never one of his favorite things to do. They still aren’t. He just spent years being clean as a way to control his surroundings and stay out of jail or off death row. Also, living in an apartment with very few pieces of furniture, random objects, and clothing helped. 

They fall asleep on the couch in Gabe’s large as fuck living room after the Thai shows up and gets picked through for the best bits. 

Gabe’s phone wakes them way too early. Victoria texts for them to get their asses into gear. Then she calls to make sure they’re bright-eyed and blurry-minded. Brendon can hear her over the phone telling Gabe _‘I knew you’d forget to set an alarm, so get the fuck up, assholes’_. 

He’d rather not get dressed yet. Suits stifle him. The last one he wore was funeral garb. It’s just another reminder of the past.

However, the day isn’t going to pause for them, so he groans and rolls off the extremely comfortable couch, heading towards the bathroom when he’s steady enough to not stumble into the end table sitting nearby. Gabe keeps aspirin in the top drawer of the vanity counter. He’s not feeling hungover, but to be safe, he pops three.

There’s also a spare toothbrush in the drawer. His mouth tastes mossy and terrible. One of the few downfalls of alcohol consumption. Toothpaste isn’t hard to hunt for after that.

He’s swishing mouthwash when Gabe knocks on the open door.

“Catch. Romeo’s on the line. I’m going to shower while you two coo like Turtle Doves at each other. Espanté. Go be cute elsewhere. I need to commune with the hot water because some freak of nature decided it was perfectly fine for us to pass out on the couch instead of crawling to our beds.” 

Brendon spits in the sink and runs the tap for a second to wash the blue liquid down the drain. Frank’s laughing like a bastard when he finally has the ability to say _‘hi'_.

“Did I interrupt anything intimate? Should I call back later?”

Perhaps, it was in bad taste to mention the times he’s hooked up with Gabe in the past. However, Brendon didn’t want that little, nonconsequential fact coming back to bite him on the ass. Frank was unhappy for a week, and then started making jokes when he realised Gabe wasn’t going to steal Brendon away from him.

“Asshole. We got drunk and fell asleep mocking old reruns of _Bewitched_ on TV Land. We left early. Gabe didn’t want to stick around. I don’t know why.”

Frank stops laughing, a yawn stretches his words out when he starts to speak again “You asked yet?”

Brendon scratches his stomach through the fabric of his shirt while he pads to his old bedroom. “Not yet. Thinking about trying during the drive to the church. Did you amaze and dazzle last night?”

The closet doors open to display the bare space, only his suit hangs there. The thing looks expensive as fuck. Only the best for Pete’s wedding. They didn’t even have to go shopping during those last days of August. Victoria had to cancel the tux orders for them when Gabe found out what Peter’s expectations were.

There’s a row of taped-up boxes sitting under the window sill - Gabe must have moved them before hanging up the suit. Dust covers the cardboard, and Brendon itches to cut the tape, open the boxes, and root through them. Frank’s voice keeps him from searching for his pocket knife. 

“Dazzle, my ass. I’m bored as shit. No wonder Carter loves this mind-numbing fuckery; it’s like watching paint dry.”

“I was under the assumption you enjoyed the _‘mind-numbing fuckery’_ as much as Carter does? Wait, let me guess: the business people are douchebags with humor drier than the desert at noon?”

Brendon smiles, the plastic of his cell phone rubs against his face. It’s warm and reminds him that he needs to shave the stubble away when Gabe’s finished in the bathroom. 

“They’re raging tools; like, you have no idea, Bren. I want to throttle them with their mini-pocket calculators. If this is what account trips are about, I’d rather be grounded.”

A pocket calculator would make a terrible weapon. Brendon opens the top drawer of the dusty chest of drawers. There are three pairs of new - expensive - dress socks sitting next to three pairs of new underwear. None of the other drawers have anything in them, except for the last one. His dress shoes are sitting shined and buffed in the center. He only wears them to Pete’s holiday parties along with a pair of slacks and a pricier button down. There’s never been any reason to take them with him when he changes out of his holiday finery.

All his clothes - everything he left when he moved out - are packed in most of those boxes, along with a few dvds, some cds, and other trinkets he accidentally collected during the end of his teen years. He’s distracted once again by wanting to open the boxes. It means he’s not paying attention to what he’s saying.

“A pocket calculator isn’t going to do much damage, Frankie. A stapler, maybe. If you can find a heavy desk one. You’re better off using one of their pens-”

“Hey Bren, I was joking. But good to know. When I get back, I want to hear all about how you know the limitations of pocket calculators. I bet it’s an interesting story.”

It’s not really. Bloody as fuck, yes; interesting, _no_. There was an office jockey at a firm in Jersey skimming money from his well-connected boss and terrorizing the female employees on his floor. Legal action wasn’t sticking and the boss wanted to be done with the guy already. When firing the asshole turned out to be impossible, Pete was called for a favor.

The boss needed the hit to look like a robbery. Brendon didn’t even have to set up the blackout that took out the cameras. It wasn’t the easiest job he ever pulled, but it wasn’t the hardest, either.

“It’s boring as fuck. We can do better things than talk when you get back.” He’s already mentally moved on to thinking about sex as Frank chuckles on the other end of the call.

“I miss you, too. The hotel bed is empty without you on the other side-”

“I love it when I’m right. Cute cooing, pajaritos singing to each other. No phone sex in my apartment, fuckers. Shower’s free now, kiddo. Time to go wash the booze stink off.”

Gabe leans against the door frame, smirking. He’s already dressed in his suit slacks and an undershirt. His hair’s still wet, and Brendon can admit that Gabe’s hot as fuck, even if he doesn’t feel a pull to do anything about that anymore. It was never really about attraction when they had sex. Maybe that’s why it was easy to let that go when they stopped. Their relationship didn’t need sex to survive. It never did. They’re better off like this.

“Tell Gabe he’s an interfering bastard and that I hate him. Call me after the wedding, when you get home. Long-distance cock-blocker there can’t interrupt us then. Love you.”

Brendon shakes his head and tugs on a strand of hair that’s fallen into his face. “Love you, too. If you’re taking a nap when I call, I’m going to be obnoxious and pushy.”

He ends the call without saying _goodbye_. He’s not too fond of the sentiment. Goodbyes always seem final to him. A promise of an ending he dislikes acknowledging the existence of. 

“Frank says you’re a bastard.”

Gabe shrugs and grins at Brendon before pushing off from the doorframe and wandering away to finish dressing. 

The master bathroom’s mirror is still steamy in splotches when Brendon shuts the door behind him. Gabe’s apartment has two bathrooms, and Brendon could be using the other one, but it reminds him of his parents. The last time he went in there turned into a hell day. He’d rather not tempt fate today. Pete’s already doing that by having a _very_ public wedding. Apparently, his paranoia doesn’t extend to impossibly quick engagements with a quirky woman who seems fine with mob entanglements.

Showering is a quick hop in and hop out. Brendon’s not in the mood to take his time. The sooner he’s clean, the sooner he can get everything over with. 

He shaves just as efficiently and leaves the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. Gabe’s talking on his cell phone when Brendon walks by the master bedroom. For one moment, time inverts on itself, and Brendon feels like he’s a teenager again - gawky and angry at the world - getting ready for a funeral he’s trying like hell to not think about. Gabe notices him staring and waves him off while lowering his voice and turning away from the door, shattering the effect.

Brendon shakes his head and goes to his old room. That move never worked on him when he was younger; it still doesn’t now. Gabe has to know he’s going to _so_ ask who he was talking to. It’s a toss up between Nate, William, Victoria again, or Ryland. Pete’s a valid assumption to make, but he’s busy today, and they’ll be seeing him in a few hours anyway, which makes him an unlikely choice.

Getting dressed without letting his mind drift to the worst days of his life is hard. The underwear and socks feel exactly as expensive as they are. The suit is soft, yet the fabric is firm. High quality. He hates it but puts it on anyway. A crisp white button down, black slacks starched within an inch of their life, skinny black tie, and a dry-clean-only black suit jacket completes the ensemble. 

All that’s left is his dress shoes. He sits on the edge of the bed and sets his shoes on the carpet next to his socked feet. The comforter is freshly cleaned, no dust or lint clings to his suit. Gabe must have washed it when he moved the boxes. 

Brendon closes his eyes, dropping his chin to the collar of his shirt. His hands sit on his knees, fingers curling loosely against the curve. Memories wash against him. Some good, but most bad. When did he become this much of a pessimist? 

When did he decide he couldn’t really live a normal life?

He snorts under his breath. It’s not like the answers to his questions are _hard_ to trace back to an origin. He was a bouncy, hyper, and optimistic child - teen - until his family died. And there was no way _normal_ was going to cut it after Jon. 

But now, he has to move on, just a little. He can’t change the past and continuing to tap into it is only going to drive him insane. Not to mention, he’ll end up pushing everyone away, for good. Maybe there was a time in his past when he _wanted_ that. 

It’s not the case anymore.

He’s beginning to realize exactly how many people he has around him who matter. How many people he’d do anything for. How many people who haven’t given up on him even when they should have. 

Gabe and Frank are on the top of his list, but they’re not alone. Not by a long shot. Shannon and the twins are somehow okay with his friendship, regardless of his tool-ish-ness all these years. 

Suddenly, it doesn’t feel hard as fuck to just _try_. The weight’s still there. He can feel it, a heavy presence that presses him downwards toward the carpet. But, he’s never going to get far if he continues to let it pin him to the ground. His parents would be unhappy with his resignation, and, well, Brendon’s always known Jon wouldn’t approve of the path he took.

Thinking about it, there was never any other course of action to take. He’s always been stubborn as hell and a jump-first, ask-questions afterward type of guy. It got him in trouble enough times when he was in school or at home. 

If Jon hadn’t taken him in that Thanksgiving day, he’d be dead. 

Brendon can admit, pushing his damnedest to take Jon’s place was a bit of a moronic mis-step. However, at the same time, he’s not exactly sure he’d be in the right frame of mind to make a different choice if time travel became readily available tomorrow. 

There are just some decisions you make that define you. 

Apparently, contract killing is one of his. That doesn’t mean it has to build the rest of his future for him if he doesn’t want it to, and he doesn’t. He’s closed that chapter of his life. It’s time to begin writing a new one for himself. 

To start off, he has to go to Pete’s wedding, and it’s not just because of Gabe or Jon. Brendon might not be the fondest of Pete, but he’s a friend in a roundabout way, and without Pete, there’s no telling where he would have ended up. Dead in an alleyway is the most plausible answer. Without Pete, there would be no Gabe, and that little factor is the biggest reason Brendon’s alive and breathing at this very moment. 

It’s about time he stopped being the selfish asshole he’s been since almost forever. Today’s as good of a day as any to turn over a new leaf. 

The mattress dips while he’s putting his shoes on and lacing them up. 

“You clean up well, kiddo.”

Gabe doesn’t say anything else, and Brendon straightens his laces to make them more presentable.

“As opposed to cleaning down? I’m not a hobo hopping the rails, nor am I Anne Hathaway in _The Princess Diaries_.”

Gabe laughs and ruffles his slightly damp hair. “Now that you mention it, your hair could use some work. Arriba. When we get finished, you can have the ridiculously expensive sunglasses I bought for your suit so we can be even more badass.”

Brendon shakes his head. “You’ve been watching MiB on loop again when the insomnia sets in.”

It’s not a question. When Gabe can’t sleep, he’ll watch old summer blockbusters - or any cult film, really - until he passes out. _Independence Day_ and _Men in Black_ were in heavy rotation when Brendon first moved in. Their first tentative bonding experience was over a weekend marathon of films with actors wearing suits. To this day, he has never finished _Reservoir Dogs_ or _Pulp Fiction_ because of the content, even if he was hell-bent on trying at the time, and Gabe was just as determined to not break him anymore than he already was.

 _Pulp Fiction_ was replaced with multiple viewings of _The Blues Brothers_. While _Reservoir Dogs_ got switched out with _My Cousin Vinny_ and _The Addams Family_. Apparently, as long as one person wore a suit, the movie was game, unless the mob or mass murder were involved.

“Mal, kiddo. Jake and Elwood have been keeping me company lately.”

Brendon laughs. Of course.

“We’re not on a mission from God.”

They’re not. Pete’s wedding might be in a church - nondenominational - but that doesn’t equate _mission from God_. Even if it did, he doesn’t believe anymore. 

Gabe pats him on the shoulder and stands. “Arriba, kiddo.”

Brendon jumps to his feet easily, smoothing his suit of wrinkles as he rises. “You’d think I’d be fluent in Spanish by now, but no. I’m up, happy?”

Gabe smirks at him, and they’re off, back to the bathroom so his hair doesn’t look too fluffy or weird. He still hasn’t gotten a trim. There’s not really any reason to anymore. He enjoys it falling into his face. When strands aren’t poking him in the eyes, that is.

After that, they’re finally on the road. Gabe’s Cadillac is silver and tasteful. Brendon’s fallen asleep in the passenger seat many times in the past. The car reminds him of only good things. If he’s not careful he’ll pass out, drooling against the cool glass of the window.

They talk about nothing and everything. Movies Gabe’s been watching and the tv shows Frank’s been subjecting Brendon to. Work weaves its way into their conversations, and Gabe asks him if he wants to temporarily sub in for Cathy when she has to go on leave in a few months to take care of her seventeen year old daughter when she gives birth. Cathy’s one of Gabe’s floor supervisors, and it’s not like Brendon can’t do her job if push came to shove. 

It would mean a more solid schedule but also more responsibility. He shrugs noncommittally because it’s probably best if he mentions the opportunity to Frank first. That’s what people in relationships do, right?

Well, Frank did before he went on his business trip. So, it’s only fair for Brendon to do the same, even if position is only temporary. 

The radio cuts to a commercial for a local body shop, and they mock it, viciously. He ends up bowing his head, laughing like a lunatic when Gabe tries to mimic the voice-over chick’s nasally tone. When the commercial finishes, there’s a quickly narrated list of the latest news bulletins.

Someone broke into The Smokehouse butcher shop and trashed the place. Vandalized cars near Letta’s Floral Arrangements. Shit that usually only gets mentioned when the feud between Pete and Jared is escalating again. Stupid hurtful shit that is meaningless and only causes tempers to flare even more.

There’s a quick mention of Short Stacks being shut down for some reason that he doesn’t get to hear because Gabe switches the station with a quick flick of the radio dial. Nirvana filters in the air around them, and Brendon twists in his seat to watch Gabe drive. His knuckles are gripping the steering wheel tightly. He’s not singing along with Kurt Cobain.

“Want to talk about it?”

For the life of him, Brendon can’t remember the last time he asked that particular question of anyone, let alone Gabe. He’s such a fucking self-absorbed tool. 

When they slow at a yellow light, Gabe gives him the _you weren’t supposed to notice anything_ look. The same one Brendon would catch every birthday when his gifts were long-term commitments.

“No. Fucking assholes are estupido. One day, they’re going to get each other killed and leave everyone else to clean up their messes.”

Brendon nods. He doesn’t need to hear any names to know exactly who Gabe’s talking about. There are only two people he could mean: Pete and Jared. Shannon vents about the same thing when he’s pissed as hell at his brother for being a blind asshole.

“Is that what you two fought about?”

The red light switches to green, and Gabe flashes him that look again.

“It’s not anything novedad, kiddo. Pete’s a fucking moron, and he’s getting married to someone just as connected as he is. He’s the only one who seems to not see the issues there, especially with starting another round of _who has the biggest dick_ with Leto.”

Brendon pauses before turning to stare out the passenger window. Autumn-tinted trees blur by in streaks of red, yellow, orange, and brown. He honestly hadn’t thought far enough ahead to realize how right Gabe is about, well, everything.

“Nate and William are worried. They seem to think my scrawny ass can protect you if something goes wrong.”

Gabe scoffs and flicks the Caddy’s blicker on a moment before he turns left. 

“They always worry. Not like you couldn’t if you had to, scrawny or not.”

Brendon shrugs.

“That’s not the point.”

A Metallica song takes over for Nirvana, and Gabe turns off the radio.

“What is the point, then, _niño_?”

Brendon sighs and clenches his hands into fists, laying them in his lap so he doesn’t punch the dash. He _Hates_ the rare times Gabe goes Condescending Authority Figure on him. It aggravates him needlessly and reminds him of his parents the countless times he disappointed or disobeyed them when he was young.

“I don’t know. Just, what if things get messy? You’re not invincible. No one is.”

No one ever is. That’s a lesson he learned painfully. Losing Gabe now would be...devastating. Hell, Brendon doesn’t know what he’d do if that happened. The ground he’s standing on right now feels flimsy, as thin as the skin of a soap bubble. 

Ready to pop at any moment.

“The world’s a messy place. Don’t let it drag you under again. Being happy; it sits better on your shoulders than the anger and sadness does.”

 _’If something happens to me’_ is omitted but the words are as obvious as everything else Gabe’s said. They both know shit happens. The world is unfair, cruel, snide, and bitter. Just because they haven’t picked a side in this struggle for dominance - won’t ever pick a side - doesn’t mean they’re protected from all the dangers that come with knowing violent people.

“Doesn’t mean I’m not going to side with Nate, William, and everyone else on the worrying front.”

It’s the truth. Gabe and Frank, they matter to him, and he’s going to dwell over their safety. If something happens to them, he’ll be lost. Something happening to himself isn’t as big of a deal, but ...yeah. Maybe luck will finally be on his side and his cobbled-together family will come out of this new situation unscathed.

“I think I liked you better oblivious and selfish.” 

Brendon flips him off. “I had to grow up sometime.”

Gabe laughs. “Took you forever, but I’m still proud of you.”

And like that, they slide back into talking about nothing. They park a block away from the church and walk in the chilly breeze to where they’re supposed to be. Gabe doesn’t trust the valet with his car, which he says to the valet, loudly, when they’re asked about their vehicle. In truth, he feels safer parking in the lot of a different church just in case shit happens, but it’s not something either of them will ever admit aloud.

When they get there, the church is decorated in a modern theme that screams money and trying-too-damn-hard. Lea is secreted away somewhere, and most of the guests are mingling with each other. Gabe pats him on the shoulder before going off to hunt for Pete, who’s suddenly pulled a disappearing act on Patrick. 

Brendon shakes hands with people and mostly tries to stay out of the way. He hates the way the church feels, this delicate chafing pressure that tugs at him. Marriage looks like it’s one hell of a trouble to organize. 

He wonders if Frank would ever want this some day and ends up shaking his head, laughing under his breath, as he takes in the customized decorations. Frank’s the last person in the world who’d want this many frills. Hell, Brendon shouldn’t even be worrying; it’s not like Frank has mentioned anything as permanent as marriage anyway.

Joe finds him wandering the balcony level, and they end up shoved in a corner playing poker with the ratty deck of cards Joe carries with him everywhere. Neither of them have chips or coins, so the game’s meaningless but a good way to pass the time. Spencer and Ryan find them there. Joe picks up all the cards to reshuffle, dealing the cards out to four people when he’s finished.

Brendon watches Ryan stare at his hand intently before folding while Spencer shrugs and says he’s in. Joe grins, and Brendon folds. Poker loses its finesse when there’s no reasons to bluff or raise. They all laugh when Spencer’s hand doesn’t quite beat Joe’s. 

He cheated. It’s not an accusation if it’s the truth. 

Joe spent a week hanging out with Andy while Brendon was staying close for hands on demonstrations back when he was eighteen. That was a fun week of Andy couching all Brendon’s training in survival lessons, not the finer art of killing people. Joe left at the end of the week no more knowledgeable about Brendon’s future occupation. He, also, never got around to teaching Brendon the finer points of his deception, but he did show enough of his tricks of the trade that it’s not difficult for Brendon to spot the tells if he’s looking closely enough.

Ryan speaks mostly to Spencer and Joe; he’s not excluding Brendon on purpose. That’s just how it is when you’re _family_. No one else matters if they’re not one of your own or on the payroll. Brendon quit. He’s Gabe’s, not Pete’s. That’s a line in the sand no one’s going to cross, even if Spencer seems to not give a fuck about that when he drags Brendon into a conversation about relationships that makes Ryan scoff.

Eventually, Gabe finds them, and Ryan runs off to find Pete with Spencer following behind him. Joe nods and goes to speak with Patrick after shaking Brendon’s hand and commenting on just how grown up he is.

The ceremony itself is grand but boring as fuck. Brendon sits in a pew on the second row, next to Spencer while he watches Pete fidget nervously at the altar. Patrick and Gabe are standing next to him, and in the background, security watches everything. 

Lea’s dress is blindingly white when she walks down the aisle. She’s beautiful and walks with a grace that’s almost rigid. Right then and there, he can see why Pete fell for her. Strong women who know what they want, who aren’t easily compromised, are hard to find. 

He doesn’t cry during the vows. He’s stuck watching Gabe whisper to Patrick, while Pete smiles and acts like a besotted fool. At that moment, he wishes Frank were here. Brendon wants to lean against his boyfriend’s side and hold his hand. Sure, Frank hates Pete, and that feeling is mutual, but it’s suddenly, painfully obvious that he misses his boyfriend. 

The reception is being held behind the church, in the fellowship hall. No one throws rice when Pete and Lea leave the church in favor of making a beeline for the reception. The afternoon folds into itself as the reception kicks into gear. 

No one is expecting shit to go down. The vows have been said. What point is there in needless violence after the _’I do’s’_ have already been heard?

There’s the sound of loud popping, right before glass starts to shatter everywhere. Brendon drops into a crouch. He only has a pocket knife on him. He hasn’t carried his pistol in over a year. 

He hasn’t had to. 

Security is frantic but useless. Shots continue to scatter people everywhere. Guests are screaming, and there’s the scent of copper in the air. 

Blood. 

It saturates the air until it’s hard to breathe. Brendon hides behind a knocked-over table and has to close his eyes. The rustic smell is pulling up memories of old hits. He’s having trouble focusing. 

It’s fucking inconvenient as hell.

One last wave of shots ring out before a voice shot-through with nerves yells _‘Fucking come on already’_ , and there’s the sound of feet hurrying away. Some of security follows. 

Brendon waits a beat before opening his eyes and popping up from his hiding spot. Patrick and Joe are with Pete and his wife. Spencer is standing next to Ryan. Several guests are injured. People are crying, stuttering sobs hiccupping in an echo around him while others are cursing and screaming _’help’_

It takes him a moment to spot Gabe. When he does, he tries to scramble forward only to trip over a broken chair. He rolls into the fall and pain shoots through his left hand when scattered glass slices into his palm. 

He’s not thinking about the pain. 

Truthfully, he’s not thinking about anything anymore. His mind is blank. Numb. Gabe’s leaning against one of the far walls. He’s not trying to stand, and Brendon’s resolutely _not_ focusing on the pinpricks of red he can make out.

The noises around him mute. Time melts into a puddle as he bolts forward. His right arm snags on something snapped and twisted as he passes. It tears a hole into his suit jacket. 

He doesn’t care. 

It doesn’t matter.

Gabe’s cursing in Spanish when Brendon finally drops down beside him. Brendon can make out _‘bitch’_ , and _‘motherfucker'_ , but not much else. 

The world is chaos around them. Sirens wail in the distance.

“Stop looking at me like that, _niño_. Getting shot in the shoulder is not a death sentence.” Gabe’s words are bitten off and stark, pain lacing every enunciation. 

Brendon nods and sags against the wall next to Gabe, shrugging out of his suit jacket so he can use it for extra pressure against the wound. They both hiss when he finally presses his hands against Gabe’s left shoulder. 

Gabe’s eyes narrow.

“Where are you hurt.”

Brendon rolls his shoulders in a shrug. It pulls the muscles of his right arm enough for a twinge of discomfort to mix in with the pain sparking up from his hand. 

“Some scratches from the glass. I’m fine.”

Physically, he’s barely hurt at all. Mentally, though, his thoughts are starting to race. Thank fuck his hands aren’t shaking from the emotions trying to drown him. 

People are down in front of them, around them. There’s broken glass _everywhere_. The scene is horrifying.

Macabre.

He’s reminded of his parents, his siblings, and the puddles of blood that seeped into everything in the duplex when it collected where they slumped over in death. He never saw their bodies, and only studied the crime scene photos once. However, Jon snuck in with him a night later so he could steal a picture from his mother’s prized photo album.

Brendon still has the tiny photo. It’s shoved behind his license in his wallet. The photo paper is discolored, and one of the corners is creased within an inch of its life. It’s all he has left. Jon wouldn’t let him take anything else. They couldn’t risk being found out.

He’s memorized the faces of everyone in the photo. His parents smiling, and his brothers and sisters trying to behave while Brendon made ridiculous face after ridiculous face. It was the last spring photography session his father was ever able to afford. 

He was eleven.

Cops and paramedics swarm in. It’s like watching blue and white bees buzzing everywhere. Brendon hums _’I’m a little, black, rain cloud’_ under his breath. The song sticks in his head and refuses to go anywhere. 

Once the seriously injured are transported to the hospital, Gabe’s herded to an ambulance, and Brendon goes with them. There’s no way in hell he’s leaving right now, even if he should be stealing the keys to the Caddy so he can take it back home. Screw it. No one’s going to jack Gabe’s car, and he can always have Ryland or Victoria drive him to it later.

When they get to the emergency room, a nurse ushers him away for stitches. Gabe waves him off and flirts shamelessly with the two nurses flanking him. The stitches are tiny pricks of pain that skate across the inside and outside of his hand. His right arm is only scratched and bruised. 

He spends twenty-five minutes after the stitches - the curious, probing, questions from the nurse left unanswered - filling out insurance forms. When he’s finished, he goes outside and starts calling or texting people. He rings the Moxie first and gets Ryland. It takes another twelve minutes for Victoria to come after Ryland pages her. 

They’re not happy. Of course, they’re not; who would be?

He fields questions from them until he feels a headache brewing behind his eyes. He ends the call with a promise to let them know when the doctor’s finished checking Gabe. William’s not a big fan of verbal conversations over cell phones. Brendon sends three texts rapid fire, one after another, to explain what happened. If he doesn’t, Nate and William will hang him up by his thumbs when they find out later. Nate isn’t answering his phone, so Brendon leaves a voicemail after he’s tried calling five times with no answer. By the time he hangs up, there’s a text from Shannon.

**call us, asshole.**

The local news has probably already run with the story as a breaking development. Joys. He scrolls through his contacts for Shannon’s number before pressing send.

That’s another twenty minutes of explaining and occasionally closing his eyes while he talks. A tiny group of teenage girls in soccer jerseys gawk at him when they pass. Once Shannon’s finished cursing, they mutually hang up on each other. Brendon’s left to stare at his phone as the screen darkens. He needs to call Frank, but he doesn’t know what to say.

Instead of dialing Frank’s number right away, he sends a text first.

**rainchck pls. M fne**

He spends the next couple of minutes trying to arrange his thoughts. He reads Frank’s reply of **’but?’** before pressing speed dial number two. 

“Frank-”

He blanks the rest of his words, getting lost in listening to Frank breathe. The weight of everything is finally beginning to crush him. It was bound to catch up with him sooner, rather than later.

“Brendon, what’s wrong?”

Frank sounds _so_ worried, and Brendon laughs without meaning to. His nerves are shot, even if no one can tell but himself. Fucking hell, he used to kill people for a living. It shouldn’t be this hard to get a grip on his frayed emotions.

“Someone shot up the reception. There was glass and blood everywhere. It stunk of copper and tears. The screaming was deafening. I hid behind a table like a scared little kid. Worthless and cowardly-” 

“Whoa, slow down, Bren. Someone shot up the wedding reception? You mean like action movie, gunfight shot up? Is everyone okay? Are _you_ okay?”

Frank’s voice grounds him. Brendon flexes his left hand, watching the gauze covering his stitches stretch and crease.

“Yeah. Bullets and blood everywhere. I didn’t see who it was. Security was supposed to be tight. I don’t know; Gabe got shot. Was kinda hard focusing on anything else-”

Frank curses “-shit, Brendon. How is he?”

Brendon sets his phone on his thigh and runs the fingers of his right hand through his hair. There are splinters of wood and slivers of glass hiding in a few of the strands; they shake out easily enough. Breathing takes effort every time his mind catches on the phrase _‘Gabe got shot’_. He has to pull himself together. Gabe’s alive. He’s not dead. Brendon hasn’t been left behind again. 

He _hasn’t_.

When he’s sure he’s not going to shake apart, he picks his phone back up. “He’s getting checked out right now. Got shot in the shoulder.”

“I bet the asshole will be around tomorrow, no worse for wear. How are _you_?” Frank’s voice loses its brief humor and bravado.

“I cut up my hand, Frankie. Nothing bad, but there’s stitches. Other than that, I’m fine. A coward, but fine.”

“What the fuck were you supposed to do against bullets? You don’t wear kevlar, Brendon. I’m calling the office and coming back early. We finished everything last night, anyways. The only things left are nit-picky details I don’t give a flying fuck about right now.”

“I’m _FINE_ , Frank. Stay.”

“No, you’re not. You’re freaking out, and I’m already looking for a return flight, as we speak. Suck it up, asshole.” 

Brendon glances up from where he was watching his feet and notices cops walking up to the emergency room. Ten-to-one, they’re here to take statements. 

“Bob’s here. I gotta talk to him. Love you.”

“Tell him to shake some sense into you. I’ll be home as soon as I can. Love you.”

Brendon ends the call and tries to smile at Bob. He falls flat by a mile, maybe two. The officer to Bob’s right keeps walking while Bob stops and pulls out his notepad and a pen.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Bob’s voice is steady, strong. It’s oddly soothing.

Brendon nods and closes his eyes again. What he wouldn’t give for some aspirin right about now, but he already declined what the nurse offered him, so he’s shit out of luck until later.

“I was coming back from the makeshift bar with a bottle of water when gunfire started. I dropped to the floor and ducked behind a knocked-over table. People were screaming; there was glass everywhere. More shots were fired. I don’t know how many people were involved, but security fucked up somewhere. One of the shooters yelled above the screaming, and his partners fled.”

Bob jots notes down. Brendon can hear the scratch, scratch, scratch of the ballpoint scraping across the surface of the paper.

“What did the shooter say?”

Brendon opens his eyes and stares at the tiny dying tree behind Bob, distant and to the left of his shoulder. 

“ _‘Fucking come on already’_.”

“Are you sure?”

Brendon pulls his attention to Bob’s gaze and glares at him.

“Fucking positive, Officer Bryar. If those words don’t show up in my nightmares, I’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

“Did you catch a glimpse of what any of them looked like?”

Brendon shakes his head, angrily. “No. Men in black suits. Just like everyone else.” If he knew, it would give him something else to focus on. 

“Any idea who would do something like this?”

The laughter bubbles up in his throat before he can help himself. Bob can’t seriously be asking him that question. He _can’t_. Or maybe the answer is only obvious to Brendon and possibly Patrick, Pete, and Gabe. 

“Pete isn’t exactly the Dali Lama or Mother Teresa; I’m sure you could pick any of his enemies from a hat and go from there.”

Bob closes his notepad and clicks his pen once. “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Saporta. If you think of anything else important, please call us.”

Instead of handing him a business card with the local precinct number embossed on the front, Bob sits down next to him and slides his notepad into its proper pocket.

“How’s Gabe?”

Brendon startles. Bob’s gruff, but for some peculiar reason, he’s being careful with Brendon. Also, he’s not taking notes anymore, which could only mean what he’s asking now is personal, not professional. 

“Shot. How did you know?”

“Elaine called.”

That’s...actually not surprising. Brendon forgets sometimes that Elaine used to work with Bob on rotations. She’d mention an officer Bryar off and on when she’d corner Brendon for his help on her P.I. cases. He never thought he’d meet the infamous Bob Bryar. Then he did and promptly wanted to punch the asshole in his judgemental face.

“Shannon must have told her.” 

Bob grunts his agreement. “Off the record, who do you think did this?”

Brendon shrugs. “Someone in the Leto camp with something to prove - nothing official - is my bet. More people would be dead or injured if this was professional or an actual order.” Not to mention, Pete or his blushing bride would be dead if this was a hit or a display of aggression. 

Bob gives him a confused look for half a second before nodding. Brendon’s not going to elaborate. There’s no way. No _Fucking Way_ he’s ever, _ever_ , telling Bob about his past. He hasn’t quite passed that bend in the road to insanity, yet. Hopefully, he never does. 

“You’re not going to go do something stupid, are you?”

Brendon has to bite back another laugh. Been there, done that. He’s collected all the membership shirts and almost cracked like an egg under the years of strain his last bout of stupidity caused him.

“What do you care, Officer Bryar? You don’t like me. I’d wager you’d smile the first chance you got to arrest me.”

Bob shrugs, his blue uniform bunching across his shoulders. “Some people get dealt shit hands, kid. I don’t relish the thought of dragging you down to lock up, but I will if I have to. I don’t dislike you, not anymore, and I hate to admit it, but you’re good for Frank. You don’t see it, but you are. So don’t fuck this up.”

That answer shocks him. Brendon wasn’t expecting to hear _anything_ remotely close to that. 

He blinks several times.

“Do your job, and I won’t have to pick up the slack.”

His voice is rougher than he expects it to be, and there’s more anger twisted up in his words than he was going for. Brendon doesn’t care. He means everything he just said. As long as the cops don’t play favorites or shove shit under the figurative rug, he doesn’t plan on doing anything.

He’s not one of Pete’s people. He’s not getting involved, even if a part of him is raging with the want to lash out and hurt the people who shot Gabe. What happened is a public matter where civilians and neutrals got hurt. That means the police get to deal with what happened if Jared doesn’t handle everything in house, or Pete doesn’t get wind of the suspects and have them hunted down like dogs and tortured for their transgressions, first.

“Brendon.”

Bob stands and walks towards the emergency room entrance when Ryland strides up to them, his long-ass legs quickly eating the distance between the parking lot and Brendon’s perch on the stone wall built as a partition between the outdoor eating area and the empty expanse of slowly browning grass and scenery. 

“I was just about to go back in and pester the doctors about Gabe.” Brendon slides off the stone and ends up in a bone-crushing hug. He doesn’t fight the compulsion that causes his arms to readily return the embrace. 

“They got the boss in a private room for extra special overnight observations, just to be safe. He called Vicky-T from the room phone. She filled me in when I parked.”

Brendon nods. He feels slow and stupid for not knowing. Here he’s been outside chattering away like a squirrel for longer than he expected when he should have been inside already.

“Did she lose the coin toss this time?”

“Come on, shorty; the boss man beckons. Nah, she won, but she’s been mainlining caffeine all day, so she’s crashing Gabe’s guest chair tonight while you go home and get your beauty rest.”

Brendon pauses; he was expecting to stay. There are very few people he trusts. Very few people who he’d feel comfortable with taking his place at a bedside vigil. Victoria and Ryland are really the only two he’d let replace him. They were around before he was. Were around while he was gone volunteering or picking up hits left and right. He always kinda expected they’d still be around when he finally fucked up badly enough to get his ass wasted.

He _can_ count on them.

“Stop skulking about like a sulking, tom cat. Vicky-T said they didn’t have to do surgery. That’ll cut his hospital stay to nearly null.”

Brendon looks up at Ryland, sharply. “You can never just pander to me, can you? You weren’t there.”

Ryland shakes his head. “Nope, and I doubt spazzing now is helping anything. You want to string Gabe out, be my guest, but be prepared to be mauled to death when Vicky-T shows up.” 

Brendon sighs. It’s never fun when Ryland is right. He shouldn’t be allowed the grace of being right because he’s a weirdo who does stupid accents for no reason half the time he’s on shift. The guy’s also almost unflappable. That’s possibly why he’s here now instead of Victoria; she tends to tense up and go into crisis mode much like Brendon does. They can handle shit, just not as smoothly as Ryland can. 

The smug bastard.

They’re nowhere near Intensive Care when Ryland raps on a cracked door thrice. He pushes the door open with the palm of his hand when Gabe tells them to come in.

The room is white, boring, uniform, and terribly clean. Gabe’s sitting up in the hospital bed, left arm in a sling. He looks tired and small, which isn’t a thing Brendon ever thought he’d witness considering how motherfucking _tall_ Gabe is.

“Hi, dearest. I thought we talked about playing nice with the other parents? I found our youngest sitting in the garden, brooding. What are we ever going to do now?”

Brendon finds himself snickering under his breath at Ryland’s words. Gabe shakes his head slowly and tries to keep from laughing.

“Cariño, you know, I can’t help myself. I was wondering where he snuck off to. We’ll make do.”

There’s a pause, then Gabe sighs. “Why the fuck did you let me drag you away from the theater, douche?”

Ryland shrugs. “Good idea at the time?”

Brendon snags the chair to Gabe’s right and drags it until he can sit close enough to touch. The motion draws Gabe’s attention.

“The doc said I could leave tomorrow if no complications arise. They pulled the bullet out with no troubles, but they’re worried about blood-loss. Blah, blah, blah. Let me see your hand.”

It’s never any use denying Gabe anything, so he doesn’t. His sleeve is still rolled up over his elbow, showing his unfinished tattoo.

“You look badass, kiddo. All ruffled and ragged around the edges. How many stitches?”

Brendon shrugs, and Gabe pokes at the gauze. “I know you counted them as they were being put in.”

“Twenty-two. Total. Need to have them taken out in about a week, maybe sooner.”

“Stop being Bruce Wayne. No one died. Pete answered when I called to ask. A few critical conditions, a hell of a lot of minor injuries, and one pissed off married couple. No deaths.”

Ryland mutters something under his breath about jackasses and donkeys before stealing Gabe’s tv remote to search for something distracting to watch 

“Only the best private room money can reserve.”

An extremely old episode of Top Model is playing, and Brendon falls asleep in the uncomfortable chair about halfway through. The tip of an acrylic nail snags in his hair, and he’s awake instantly. The room is dimmer than it was, and Gabe’s whispering to someone over the landline. Ryland’s standing near the window peeking out the shuttered blinds like some creepy neighbor in a shittily-made, horror film.

Victoria smiles at him, the motion is tense and marred with unease. It’s good to know he’s not the only one still shaken. “Rise and shine, sweet tart; you’re in my seat. Ryland’s going to take you home.” 

Brendon stands and starts rummaging through the drawers behind him. He needs Gabe’s car keys. 

“I have to pick up the Caddy, first. Ryland, would you mind driving me to get it after I have the keys?” 

Ryland nods and laughs as he does some magic trick that produces Gabe’s car keys from one of his pockets.

“If you can’t find them, shorty, I don’t think you need to be driving.”

Brendon shakes his right hand out and tries to remember not to do the same with his left. It hurts like a bitch. It’s possible he shouldn’t even try to drive, but he has to do this. It’s one of the few things he can control the outcome of right now.

“Asshole.”

Ryland beams at him, a smile that would make even a Mako proud. He chucks Gabe’s keys at Brendon’s head before walking to the door.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, dearest; don’t go courting disaster while I’m away. I’ll be outside, Brendon.”

Victoria ruffles his hair and says something about raiding the vending machine before she goes to walk Ryland outside.

“Nothing’s going to happen to my car, kiddo. Go home and sleep. Take some aspirin and pass out in your bed after showering. I’m not going anywhere, and I’ll be here when you show up in the morning.”

Logically, Brendon knows that. He _does_. Just, what if something happens while he’s away? It already did once in his life. Lightning is known to strike a person more than once in their lifetime. 

“Bright and early.”

Gabe nods at him, wincing when the movement jostles his shoulder. 

“I wouldn’t expect anything else, niño.”

He goes to leave and stills before turning back toward Gabe again. The hug is one-armed and hard as fuck to navigate, but they manage it. Brendon pulls away and tries to smile. He’s not doing a very good job masking his emotions, though.

The word _goodbye_ lodges in his throat, and he has trouble gulping down air around the obstruction. Gabe will still be here tomorrow. 

He _will_. 

Ryland doesn’t try to con Brendon into a conversation during the drive. He already knows where to go. Gabe probably told him where the Caddy is. Brendon can’t even do this right or on his own. 

He’s pathetic.

The Cadillac isn’t scratched up when Ryland drops him off, waiting for Brendon to start the car before peeling out of the empty parking lot. The drive back to Gabe’s apartment is boring, uneventful. His phone stays silent.

By the time he parks, his left hand is pissed as hell at him. There’s no blood leaking through the gauze, though, so he couldn’t have popped any stitches just yet. Thank fuck for that small favor.

Kevin, the doorman, is missing when Brendon slips into the lobby. No one’s around to witness him in his shabby state of dress and demeanor. The elevator is empty of souls when he takes it to Gabe’s floor. 

Exhaustion and resignation try their damnedest to slam into him the moment he has Gabe’s front door shut behind his stiff back. Falling asleep in a chair after sleeping on a couch the night before hasn’t been good for his body. Add in the rush of adrenaline and panic during the reception, and it’s a heady mix of _oh fuck, so damn tired_ and _lost, lost, lost_ swirling about in his head.

However, sleep has to wait. First, he needs out of this damn suit. There’s a reason he hates them. Once is a fluke, but twice...twice is a fucking sign. No more suits, never again. 

With the stitches in his hand and the bruises, it’s difficult undressing and cleaning up on his own. For a split second, he stares at his cell phone willing someone to call. He wouldn’t ask for help, even then, but someone calling him an idiot would be a much needed distraction.

The bottle of aspirin hasn’t moved since this morning, and Brendon dry swallows four, watching himself in the mirror popping them back like tic-tacs. Showering turns out to be beyond his motor skills, and he settles for a soapy, warm wash rag to scrub at the patches of flaky, dried blood that he can see. His hair can wait until tomorrow, though he does run his fingers through the mess to shake out any extra, stray bits of glass so they fall into the sink.

Stripped down to his underwear and socks - leaving his ruined suit in a puddle of red-stained fabrics - he zombie-shuffles to his old room. Bright, artificial light almost blinds him when he flips the light switch on. He tries to fall asleep on top of the comforter, but his mind keeps whirling, whirling, whirling. 

Cutting the light off only succeeds in winding him up even more. Brendon ends up scrambling to turn the light back on before sinking to the carpet in his underwear and tugging one of the taped-up boxes to sit in front of him. The tape rips violently when he tugs on the end of the strip, a loud, tearing sound following the motion. 

A pair of worn jeans and a long-sleeved tee-shirt are the first things he retrieves. The tee is easier to slip on than yesterday’s button down, and it feels worn and soft, despite the slightly musty smell that clings to the cotton fibers. The jeans are just as easy to put on - minus the button he fumbles with one-handedly - like sliding into an old skin that was always well-loved.

He’s lost weight and muscle mass since he was nineteen, and the jeans are loose-fitting. Nine years and he’s getting smaller instead of larger. The mysteries of the universe never cease to confuse the fuck out of him. 

Two boxes in and Brendon can’t stand being still anymore, lost in his past and worrying about the future. He putters around Gabe’s apartment, trashing the old take-out boxes and doing other minor chores. Frank calls him while he’s rinsing out a glass with his right hand. He has to set the glass down so he can reach for his phone, perched on the marble countertop. 

“I’m leaving the airport now. Should be home soon. Where are you?”

Frank sounds weary and stretched thin. Brendon hates that he’s the reason. He also hates that he didn’t even know Frank was already this close to home.

“At Gabe’s. Cleaning.”

His voice trails off in a yawn.

“Vicky-T forgot to mention my flight when you woke up, didn’t she? I’ll pick you up; his place is on the way.”

Brendon shakes his head before realizing there’s no way Frank can see him. 

“My car-”

“Can stay there for a night. Give me forty-five minutes, and the time to buy a large coffee, and I’ll swing by.”

Brendon’s not going to win this argument so he whispers _‘okay’_ into his phone before hanging up. His phone sinks to the bottom of his pocket, a stone weighing him down, when he puts it away.

By the time he’s ready to lock up, he’s transferred his wallet, pocket knife, and keys from his slacks to his jeans, straightened a few more things, cleaned and put away his dress shoes, trashed his suit shirt and slacks, tidied up the mess he made of several of the boxes, and shrugged into a hoodie he didn’t repack. It’s one Gabe bought him for his eighteenth birthday so they could match, purple and neon green and highly impractical for spring weather. However, it’ll work just fine for the fall chill that’s creep-crawling everywhere outside.

He’s sitting on the curb outside, huddled under the hoodie, ass numbing from the cold seeping through his jeans from the concrete, fingers picking at the edges of the gauze wrapped around his hand when Frank pulls into the lot and parks nearby. 

Standing is an automatic reaction. Frank pops the driver’s side door of the Camry and gets out.

“You could have stayed inside. It’s not exactly a balmy night, you know. I would have called.”

Brendon shrugs lazily. He was almost asleep, the pattern of picking at the gauze lulled him into a daze. At least, he’s not drunk. Gabe’s not so well-hidden bottle of Jack Daniels had sung like a siren when he found it shoved under the bathroom sink. Resisting wasn’t easy, but the last thing he needs to do right now is get maudlin while criticizing himself for leaving Gabe at the hospital. For being a fuck-up and letting Gabe get shot in the first place. Self-pity and self-loathing only bring him down lower and lower until he’s bound to make another shitty decision. 

Though, maybe, he should have taken up the bottle’s whispered offer anyway because whiskey sounds like a good idea right about now. Especially with Frank watching him so intently.

“You look like shit, Bren. Lets get you home.”

Something about Frank’s voice sets Brendon off. “I can take care of myself. You didn’t have to cancel your work early just to come babysit me. I’m not going to break down and go on a murder spree. I have _some_ control.”

Tires squeal in the distance, and he flinches. Fuck, he’s finally bottoming-out and can’t blot the nasty voices whispering in his ear. 

Frank curls his fingers into the material of Brendon’s hoodie and drags him down for a kiss. They’re both too tired for any finesse, but fuck it, a split lip isn’t going to kill him. If anything, it wakes him up enough to regain some headspace.

Frank pulls away and frames Brendon’s face with his hands, fingertips pressing against Brendon’s jaw with enough intent to ground him.

“I know that, asshole. I was worried. It’s what people do. We’re both tired, so no fighting. My boss was fine with cutting everything short, and the clients are in the bag. Just means I have tomorrow free to act as chauffeur.”

Frank drops his hands and tugs Brendon into a hug. They stand motionless like that for what feels like ages until Frank pulls away enough to grab Brendon’s right hand with his left.

“Lets go home.”

Brendon falls asleep in the car and is barely aware of Frank asking him about his hand as they’re shuffling through the front door. Fuck if he can parse out what he says in reply, either. He doesn’t even undress when he lets his weight drop onto their shared mattress. 

A phantom scream wakes him up some time later. The room is dark, and his feet are bare when he swings them over the edge of the bed to sit up. His hand throbs from where he slammed it into the mattress when he startled awake. 

Frank sleepily grumbles something unintelligible before reaching over him to cut on the nearby lamp. His arm brushes against Brendon’s, and Brendon hisses. He wasn’t expecting the pain there. Sure, his right arm is bruised up from where he got snagged, but it has nothing on his left hand.

“Wanna talk about it?”

Brendon shakes his head and stares down at his hand. Frank shuffles closer and rests his head on Brendon’s shoulder, arms snaking around to settle against his stomach. They stay like that long enough for Brendon to get his bearings again. 

Frank helps him undress when he pulls away. The lamp gets cut off a second time, and Brendon closes his eyes, expecting round two of his nightmares to return.

They don’t.

He sleeps solidly for five more hours before suddenly tumbling into instant wakefulness. Moving hurts, which only solidifies the feeling of being awake. There’s no way he’ll be able to fall asleep now. It feels like he’s been slammed into a wall a few times. 

Frank’s not asleep beside him.

That knowledge pushes him to sit up quickly and bend to snag his clothes from earlier. They’re scattered across the floor in front of him, and it takes more effort that he was expecting to stumble into them. 

Fuck, he’s sore as hell. All he did was tumble once. It’s not like he got shot-

Brendon winces when he thinks that. Yeah, _way_ too soon to be thinking about that. 

The bedroom is chilly and mostly dark still, so he shrugs on the hoodie when he spots it in the gloom. Frank’s voice slips between the doorframe and the empty space from where it was cracked when Frank left. Slivers of warm light worm their way into the bedroom.

It’s not hard following Frank’s voice; even trying for a quieter tone, he’s just as loud as Brendon.

“I swear to fuck, and every deity who might listen, if you kick the bucket, I’m becoming fluent in necromancy....that’s a promise.”

Frank’s pacing the length of the kitchen, sipping from a coffee mug when he’s not talking into his cell phone.

“He looked all of twelve years old last night. Lost and scared, but hiding it the best he could...Of course, there were nightmares...How many times did you wake up from the same plague? Don’t lie; you suck at it, Saporta...Try and get a nap in. We’ll be by in a few hours......... I wasn’t kidding about the necromancy.”

Frank ends the call and sets his phone next to the coffee pot.

“You’re still having issues with your super stealth, Bren. Gabe called to be a nagging mother hen. He’s fine. Let me finish this cup, and I’ll wash your hair for you.”

The rest of the day is a blur. Brendon hasn’t slept well enough in the past couple days to pay due attention to everything around him. His hand hurts, and there’s a headache thumping a bass line in the back of his skull. 

It feels like he’s ready to snap in two. 

Gabe gets released from the hospital, with strict orders to not do anything strenuous for a few weeks, around the early afternoon hours and promptly bitches about the lack of leg-room in Frank’s Camry when Victoria bails on taking him back to his apartment in favor of catching a nap before her shift. He’ll have physical therapy soon, and Brendon’s already envisioning the verbal spats Gabe is going to have with his therapist over what counts as _overdoing it_ and what doesn’t. They’re not going to be pretty. Hilarious, yes; pretty, no.

The weekend - and Monday - flies by in a haze of hecticness. Brendon’s bouncing between the Moxie, Gabe’s apartment, Frank’s - their - house, the GM, and GC almost constantly. It’s as if he has no capacity to sit still. 

Sleep is fitful, at best. Frank’s already threatened to douse him with Motrin PMs and tie him to the bed for twelve hours until he winds the fuck down. Brendon tries to force himself to slow down, but he can’t. The world around him feels like it’s almost ready to collapse, just fold in two under the pressure being exerted on it. 

For those three days, the city is quiet. Sure, there is news to report, doom and gloom for the reporters to spew, but the war Brendon was expecting hasn’t sprung into existence, yet. The absence of it is eerie and pulls them all down into a false sense of security. 

He’s selfishly hoping Jared took care of everything himself and that Pete is going to let this drop. That’s a slim hope, at best. The cops have no leads, and Bob was helpful enough to tell Elaine so she could pass the word along.

Tuesday morning, Brendon’s slipping out of the Moxie with paperwork Gabe needs _now_ when he runs into Pete. Almost literally, as he’s turning from locking up. The employee parking lot is empty at eight a.m., and Pete’s been scarce since the wedding on Thursday. Needless to say, Brendon wasn’t expecting to run into anyone at this hour. Ryland won’t even be showing up until nine-thirty to begin the daily opening procedures.

“You forgot your phone. I’ve been trying to call you all morning.”

Pete hands him his phone like it’s nothing. Like it’s fucking _okay_ that he has it when Brendon accidentally left it at home when Gabe called - as Frank was leaving for work - agitated over not having copies of a few papers he needed for something he wouldn’t elaborate on. 

Brendon had set his phone on the arm of the sofa so he could re-tie his shoelaces. 

He’s gotten dexterity back in his left hand, especially since he doesn’t have to worry about popping stitches now that the lacerations are pretty much healing fine, but his loops are still sloppy, at best. He hadn’t realized his phone wasn’t in his hoodie pocket until he was hunting for the spare key to the Moxie that Gabe gifted him last year when Brendon told Gabe he was quitting contract killing for good. 

Patrick’s leaning against the driver’s side door of Pete’s Porsche and shrugs sharply when Brendon cuts his gaze in that direction. 

“You broke into Frank’s house. Mother fucking fuck, Pete. Why?” 

“Patrick picked the lock. He didn’t damage anything. I told him to be gentle. I was looking for you.” 

Fuck. Brendon scrubs his right hand through his hair Frank’s going to have a fit if he ever finds out that Pete and Patrick broke into his house.

“That’s not a valid reason to break into someone’s house.”

It’s not. Fucking hell. Brendon’s pissed at Pete _and_ Patrick for going along with Pete’s delusions of justification, whatever they may be.

“It’s important. I thought you might want a piece of the action, and since you weren’t answering, I got worried.” 

Pete’s stiff and tense. He’s as taunt as strung piano wire. Brendon’s not sure he wants to know what’s important enough to commit breaking and entering for. He snorts without meaning to.

“Worried? Come _on_ , Pete, tell me another lie.”

“Fuck you, asshole.” 

Pete takes a step forward, and Brendon stays where he is. Pete’s angry - bristling for a fight - and while Brendon could take him, Patrick’s fast enough to tackle him to the asphalt not even a second after. 

The resulting trouble isn’t worth the effort.

“We cornered the spineless fucks from Thursday. There are three of them. Andy’s in town, and he’s stalking them. I thought you might want in.”

Well, that explains Pete’s vanishing act around Gabe. Brendon covertly scans the rest of the parking lot for any strangers hanging about. This is not a conversation to be had outdoors, but if Pete wants to risk being thrown in jail for being heard by someone with cop connections just to bring Brendon in on something he’s going to pass on, that’s fine by him. At this hour, there’s not anyone around though, so...

“In on what, exactly? Torture? Murder? I don’t do that shit. Let Jared punish them in-house. Hell, let the fucking cops handle this, Pete. It’s their job, not yours.”

Pete clenches his hands into fists and takes another step forward. Behind him, Patrick pulls out of his lean, standing straighter than he was moments before.

“Leto isn’t doing shit, and the police don’t give a fuck about this. Like they’d ever waste time and money on investigating a shooting at the wedding of a supposed crime lord. This is the only way to get justice, to prove a point. Wake up, Brendon. Either you’re on Leto’s side or mine.”

And that, that just pisses Brendon off even more. Pete’s lucky Brendon hasn’t punched him for that last dig.

“I’m with Gabe on this, Pete. He’s not out there raging over what happened, and he’s the one who got shot. He’s trusting the cops to do what they’re paid to do. I don’t support Jared, and I _don’t_ work for you. This isn’t some clean-cut, us-or-them teams thing. Not everyone is going to choose sides. And, that doesn’t mean we automatically back Jared.”

Pete just glowers at him. Brendon closes his eyes and tries to fight off the headache he hoped was finally leaving for a day or two. He’s going to end up with a brain tumor from all the worry and stressing, no matter how improbable that possibility is. 

He opens his eyes and stares right at Pete, as steadily as he can.

“You’re going to start a war if you kill them just to satisfy your pride and bloodlust. You know that, right?”

Pete moves even closer. Brendon could reach out and poke him in the chest if he wanted to.

“Pride? PRIDE, Brendon? They slipped past my security and injured guests at _my_ wedding. Thank fuck, no one was killed. This isn’t pride; this is protecting our own while sending a message. _Don’t fuck with us and expect to get away with it_. I’m not starting a war; I’m plotting a motherfucking counter-attack. I had thought you’d understand, but I guess I was wrong.” 

Patrick’s gotten closer since Pete began his rant. Brendon can’t tell if it’s because he’s expecting Brendon to lash out or because he’s planning on pulling Pete away before he gets too far into his tirade to be wound down easily.

“There’s nothing to understand, except that this little pissing contest you have with Jared has escalated again, and people were bound to get hurt. I never killed to prove a point, Pete. You know that. It’s a line I never crossed in the past, and one I never plan to jump over in the future.”

Brendon shifts in his hoodie some and thinks about walking to his car, leaving Pete to stand alone in the empty parking lot. He doesn’t get a chance to move before Pete’s speaking again.

“I should have realized family doesn’t matter to you anymore. You’ve set up house with Iero. There’s no reason for you to be in our camp when you’ve moved on to greener pastures, right? Does Gabe know you’ve abandoned him? I guess Jon can rest in peace knowing you’ve turned your back on those who were there for you all those years ago when you had no one else, _right_?”

Pete’s stumbling backwards and dropping into a squat before Brendon even registers the recoil thrumming through his right hand from the hit. He’s shaking out his fingers while Pete glares at him, wiping blood away from his freshly split lip. 

“What happens when your boyfriend finds out about your sordid past, huh? You going to come crawling back, begging for a place here, where you belong?”

Brendon squares his shoulders and moves to go to his car.

“I’ll figure something out.”

And he will, if he has to. Like hell is he going to deal with Pete, again. 

Patrick helps Pete to his feet. Brendon’s actually surprised Patrick hasn’t pistol-whipped him for having the gall to punch Pete in the face. Brendon walks by them, silently, vile words and intense violence pressing against the inside of his skin, trying to claw their way out of the shell of inaction he’s barely clinging to.

“What you’re doing with Frank, Brendon, it never works. Never. It didn’t for me, and it won’t for you, either. But that’s okay. We’ll still be here when you realize that. That’s what family is for.”

And that’s what he’s afraid of. Fucking _terrified_ of. The day Frank wakes up and realizes his boyfriend is a psychopathic murderer. The day Frank kicks him out and never wants to see him again.

Brendon doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t think he could, even if he wanted to. Behind him, Patrick sharply whispers _‘You went too fucking far, Pete’_ , and Brendon can’t even spare enough thought on the idea that Patrick agrees with his mental assessment of Pete’s words.

Fuck, maybe his day won’t get any worse. 

Gabe’s asleep on his couch when Brendon slips into his apartment. He’s still on pain medication, so he sleeps more than he will once he’s weaned off the stuff. 

Brendon pulls the envelope Gabe had him retrieve from his hoodie pocket and sets it down next to the tv remote on the wide-ass, cherry, coffee table. He almost wakes Gabe because his thoughts are swirling into a storm cloud of self-destructive behavior and part of him wants to talk about it. However, Gabe’s sleeping, and he needs his rest. Brendon would just be a whiny brat, and an asshole to boot, if he shook Gabe awake only to complain about his own problems, again.

Jesus Christ, that’s all he’s done this past year. All he’s ever done is bitch and whine about his sorry lot in life. It’s time he sucked it up and handled shit on his own.

After nearly an hour of quietly puttering about, putting things away for Gabe, he snags the mostly-full bottle of Jack from its hiding place and leaves. He doesn’t feel like stopping for spirits right now, and Frank’s fridge only has cheap beer inhabiting it. 

For some reason, Brendon’s sure beer alone isn’t going to cut it today. He’ll text when he gets home so Gabe won’t needlessly worry or wonder whether or not his bottle of whiskey grew legs and ran away. 

No one stops him in the lobby, though Kevin does greet him with a confused _‘hello’_. Brendon shrugs and pulls out his phone. Ryland should be at the Moxie by now. Brendon shouldn’t be calling in, but if he plans on getting shit-faced and staring blankly at nothing for most of the day, then there’s no way he can cover his own shift. 

Ryland sounds worried when he picks up, however he doesn’t needle Brendon for information and tells him to rest for the day before coming back in tomorrow. Brendon hangs up and feels like an heel because he doesn’t shirk his responsibilities. He’s usually the guy who picks shit up, the guy who pitches in to help without even being asked. 

It’s just, he doubts he can handle people today. 

The house is empty when he gets there. The front door looks the same as before; Patrick is a genius with lock picks, and he never leaves tells behind. Nothing seems out of place. If Brendon didn’t know for a _fact_ that Pete had been in here, he wouldn’t even fathom the thought of Pete having stepped foot in Frank’s house.

Brendon makes a beeline for the central air and heating, cutting the heat off so the house can chill naturally with the cool autumn air outside, before heading to the guest room that houses his black duffels. He opens the blinds to let natural light in, leaving the light switched off. No one’s going to come up and peek in at this hour.

His phone rings, and he ignores it until the happy, jingling song gets on his nerves. The display says Shannon’s calling, and Brendon hits _end_ without even thinking about it. He doesn’t want to talk right now. 

It’s only when he refuses the call that he sees the list of missed calls from the day. 

Pete’s number shows up about fifteen times. Shannon’s shows up once, along with one call from Frank at seven-forty-five. Fuck. Brendon presses the volume key down until his phone goes silent and throws it onto the guest bed. The plastic makes a thunking noise when it hits the center of the headboard. Brendon doesn’t care.

Pete’s words echo in his head, loud and obtrusive. He unscrews the cap to the whiskey and takes a swallow. The liquor burns like a motherfucking bitch that first gulp, but it’s the kick he was looking for. 

He knocks back the bottle three more times before setting it down on the floor at the end of the bed. His duffels are heavy when he pulls them out. He only needs one of them. 

By the time the Jack is two quarters gone, he’s got a third of his gear spread out over the tarp that’s fanned-out on top of the carpet to keep everything protected. Only the weapons in need of a quick cleaning are set out. 

Brendon’s not worried about hurting himself. He’s handled almost all of these items in pitch black conditions; being a touch tipsy isn’t any different than swimming around in darkness. Not to mention, if he did hurt himself, it wouldn’t really matter. 

He’s just another filthy piece of rubbish in need of being thrown out.

Once he’s finished with the much needed upkeep, he slowly packs everything back up, save for his Infinity and the shoulder holster that goes with it. The Infinity is his favorite pistol. It shouldn’t be because it - and the shoulder holster - was a gift from Patrick when Brendon finally completed all of Andy’s rigorous training sessions. 

However, the pistol is the only thing Patrick’s ever gifted him, and Brendon can understand why. It does its job effortlessly. There’s no reason for anything else to come after something like that. 

He fell in love with it enough that it’s his personal sidearm. He carries the permit and registration in his wallet even when he’s not packing the pistol around with him. If Pete aims to start a war, then Brendon needs to be prepared for anything. 

That includes being armed.

The metal of the gun glints silver when a stray ray of sunlight hits it. Brendon takes a swig from the whiskey bottle and shoves his duffels back into the closet. He itches to drag them down to his shit-heap of a car and drive until he finds Pete, until he agrees to help Andy stalk their prey. 

It could be like old times. Like his first three jobs, when Andy was there, lurking in the shadows, a malevolent ghost ready to finish anything Brendon couldn’t. They worked well as a team, but Andy did things solo. 

Back then, that’s all Brendon wanted as well; the solitude and the job.

Violence simmers under his skin, and the feeling is uncomfortable. Driving right now would be a stupid idea. He’s not drunk, but he’s not sober, either. 

Walking several miles to a bus stop with his duffels is also not an option. If he does that, he might as well drape a neon sign from his neck that says _‘Hi, I’m sketchy as fuck and reek of alcohol. Please arrest me’_. There is no way he’s calling Pete to arrange a ride for him. That’s a level of commitment he’s not willing to go through with.

Brendon’s spent so long living in a world of blood and death that sometimes he has trouble finding his way out. It’s why he quit in the first place because killing had become easy - second nature to him - and the nightmares were eating him alive. Day was warping into night, and vice versa.

He wasn’t lying to Pete when he said he didn’t kill to prove points. It was more about burying himself in his anger and ridding the world of people like those who killed his parents, who killed Jon. Getting paid for his services was a plus, and it went a long way towards making him feel like he was repaying Jon by picking up where he left off.

It didn’t matter that Jon never had the morals Brendon somehow cobbled together; all that mattered was that Brendon was in the same business and good at his job. It took years to realize that his decisions only succeeded in fucking him up even more. By then, there was no turning back. 

He was already damned; why try to wash his hands of the blood he spilt after the matter?

He caps the bottle and sets it down on the floor next to the corner of the bed. He’s tempted to finish it.; he _wants_ to get completely plastered and black out. Forget the past week.

However, what he wants and what he should do are two completely different things. There’s only so long he can hide before Frank, Gabe, or someone else finds him. Being drunk off his ass won’t do him any favors when that happens.

Shrugging off his hoodie, Brendon slides the shoulder holster on before tugging his hoodie over the leather. The purple monstrosity reminds him of Gabe, and he’s been wearing the thing non-stop since Thursday night. Gabe had smiled at him when Brendon showed up at the hospital in the damn thing. 

It needs washing, but that can wait a few more days.

He debates on whether he should shoulder his sidearm or not. He ends up dropping to the floor, sitting with his back pressed against the foot of the bed, Infinity settled on the floor in front of him. The bottle of Jack is a taunting temptation to his left. Brendon doesn’t look at it; instead, he shuffles until he’s able to fish his wallet from his back pocket. Once he’s victorious, he leans against the bed again.

That’s how Frank finds him, some indeterminable amount of time later. Well, kinda. Frank finds him asleep, the bottle of Jack near his left knee, his wallet open and splayed across the carpet to his right like some butchered leather angel, his pistol still in the same spot he placed it before he fell asleep, and the picture of his family perched on the edge of his right knee.

The sound of the door creaking drags Brendon painfully into wakefulness. Frank’s standing in the doorway, shoulders slouched, worry etched into the lines of his face.

Brendon maybe should have planned this better. He’s not suicidal, but there are only so many things someone can infer from a fucking _gun_ setting where he placed it. The thought never even crossed his mind. 

Accidentally getting sliced up by one of his knives while he cleaned them did. Killing himself did not. 

He stumbles for his words and ends up mangling “It’s not....I didn’t-”

His brain is fuzzy and slow. Not sleeping well, coupled with the liquor, makes him sluggish and blurry. He’s expecting Frank to yell - to finally end things - when he slips into the room. 

Brendon closes his eyes, letting his head drop down towards his chest in defeat. He suddenly feels as heavy as a load of bricks. 

The silence stretches out until it’s unbearable. Brendon raises his head and blinks twice to clear his vision when his eyes won’t focus correctly. 

“I can be gone in a few hours.” 

Frank just sighs and sits down beside him, picking the bottle up and sliding it onto the comforter behind them so he can take its place. His right hand lands on Brendon’s left thigh when he tries to stand. The force exerted in the action is enough to register in Brendon’s foggy brain. 

“You gotta stop doing this, Brendon. I thought we were past this. I’m not kicking you out. You weren’t answering your phone; Gabe didn’t know where you were, and Ryland said you called-in when I rang the club. I was worried.”

Brendon laughs without meaning to. Frank’s jaw tightens and his fingers dig into Brendon’s thigh. The pain is anchoring, sobering. He latches onto it.

“This isn’t funny. Shannon texted me and said you weren’t answering texts or calls. He said you hung up on him without saying a single thing. He’s fucking pissed at you. Gabe’s not very happy, either. Where the fuck is your phone, anyway?”

Brendon looks over his shoulder to stare at the portion of the headboard he can see from his position on the floor.

“Pete said the same thing. _He was worried_ , so he had Patrick pick the lock on the front door. I was in such a hurry to leave after Gabe called that I forget my phone. Pete saw it sitting on the sofa arm and probably redialed Gabe’s number to find out where I was.”

Frank’s stiff at his side.

“How the fuck does that asshole know where we live?”

Brendon shrugs. “You’re Mikey’s best friend. Like he wasn’t going to check out shit the first time introductions were made. It’s what he does.”

Frank moves his right hand from Brendon’s thigh in favor of running fingers through his hair. “So he’s known for years. I’m going to have to add a new bolt to the front door and a sign that says _‘no Wentzs allowed’_.”

“If it key-locks, Patrick can find his way around it. Your best bet is a security system, and even then, that will only throw him off for a few hours, tops.”

Brendon leans forward and scoops up his fanned-out wallet. None of the contents have spilled out, so it’s not much work folding it back up. He leaves the picture of his family out. 

His parents smile up at him from the faded photo, and he wonders how they did it. How they stayed together for over fifteen years without shattering apart. He has to close his eyes again. He can’t ask them. 

It’s another thing that was stripped away. 

In an attempt to not wallow any deeper into the self-pity, he latches onto the fact that Frank talked to Pete.

“You called, and he answered. There’s not many ways he could have gotten ahold of my cell.” 

Frank looks at him. He’s not as stiff as he was before, and Brendon wants to lean against him. He wants to list to the left and rest his head on Frank’s shoulder. He’s tired as fuck, and his mouth tastes awful. It would be excellent if he could just curl up against his boyfriend and fall asleep feeling safe, loved.

But, that can’t happen because now that he’s started, his brain is beginning to relive his argument with Pete, and Pete’s words are playing on loop in his head.

_What you’re doing with Frank, Brendon, it never works._

_Never._

_It didn’t for me, and it won’t for..._

“He said you’d set it down for a minute, something about wanting to check in on you, and some babble about the club. I wasn’t suspicious because I didn’t think I had to be. Wentz will never be my favorite person, but he’s one of your friends.”

Brendon snorts at the word _friend_. He doesn’t know if he can consider Pete that. Not after today.

“He offered me a job. After handing me my phone like it was no big deal that he had it.”

Frank tenses beside him, and Brendon barrels on. If he stops to police his words, there’s no telling how long this will take. 

Best to just get it over with.

“Instead of going on his honeymoon, he’s been hunting down the people who ruined his wedding reception. He found them and asked me to help take them down.”

Frank twists around and stretches to snag the Jack Daniels bottle. Brendon waits for the tell-tale signs of the cap being unscrewed before continuing. He stares at his gun instead of focusing on Frank resettling at his side.

“Pete’s stubborn and sure as fuck that the cops don’t give a rat’s ass about what happened. So, he’s taking matters into his own hands. He wants me to help someone else deal the punishing blow.”

Frank knocks back the bottle. Brendon refuses to watch him swallow because it’ll only be another distraction, a stall tactic that will only delay the inevitable.

“I said _‘no’_......but-”

“You wanted to say _‘yes’_.”

It’s not a question. Frank takes another swig from the bottle and winces.

“This is fucking rancid shit.”

Brendon nods. Gabe’s never much cared for the taste of his liquor as long as it packs one hell of a punch going down. 

“I’m good at killing, Frankie. That’s not pride talking. A part of me misses that headspace _a lot_. Gabe getting shot only made that little voice louder. Pete showed up offering the offenders on a silver platter, so yeah, I wanted to say _‘yes’_. Violence is easy-”

Frank switches the whiskey to his left hand and wraps the fingers of his right around Brendon’s left wrist, squeezing hard enough to cut off his words.

“Then why the fuck did you tell Wentz _‘no’_? I better not be your reason. I can’t be your crutch here.”

Brendon looks down at the photo sitting on his knee before turning his attention to Frank.

“You, Gabe, the guys. You’re all partially the reason.”

Frank looks unhappy with that answer. Brendon’s never been good with outright lies. He can’t not tell Frank the truth.

“But, that’s not why I said _‘no'_. If we broke up tomorrow and Gabe tossed me to the curb, I’d still answer the same way if Pete asked again. He wants me to do something I no longer see the merits of. Not just that, he expects me to compromise the few morals I built up all of these years in the process and doing that means there’s no going back afterwards.”

Brendon twists and reaches for the bottle of whiskey in Frank’s hand. He sets it down and twines his fingers with Frank’s.

“Maybe...maybe, if this had happened a few years ago, I would have jumped to be included. Hell, who am I kidding, I would have sought it out readily, with open arms. Just, somewhere along the way, I realized that isn’t the life I wanted. That I am allowed to have more. That I can actually live. It’s hard as fuck-”

Frank bends the fingers of his left hand, and Brendon’s move with them. It’s a small thing that grounds him. That pulls him out of his thoughts.

“Because I don’t feel deserving, and I’m always sure I’m going to be left behind, but it’s a challenge I’m willing to accept. I’m stubborn like that. Though, I was always afraid I’d backslide. Go back to what was easy and simple to understand. Then you were around and-”

 _‘It didn’t seem worth it anymore.’_

He doesn’t get a chance to say that, though, because Frank tugs him into a kiss that’s steady and anchoring. Brendon knows there’s a pattern, a reason to why Frank does this, but he’s not going to question his boyfriend’s methods as long as things don’t push too far. When they break apart, he rests his forehead against Frank’s and thinks about all the good times they’ve had together. About how happy he is with their relationship. 

The nagging voice in the back of his head pipes up that he’s _not worth it_. The thought dashes his positive ones into prickly slivers that hurt.

“I’m not good for you, Frank-”

The second kiss is heavier, harder. Possessive. When Frank pulls away, his eyes are dark and full of intent. His hold on Brendon is tight, fingers pressing into skin painfully.

“Lucky for you, that’s not your decision. I seem to think you’re the best for me. If I didn’t, we wouldn’t be here.”

Frank doesn’t say, _‘you wouldn’t be here’_ , but the words are implied. His fingers lose their pressure, and he smiles at Brendon slightly. Brendon tries to smile in reply and knows he fails. One day, perhaps, he’ll be better at having self-worth. Not that it helps him right now.

“Sometimes, you have to just have faith in those around you to know their limits and call you on your bullshit. Speaking of which, you need to climb Bed Everest behind us to retrieve your phone. I’ll call for Italian while you reply to the calls and texts you missed pretending to be Polly Pitfalls.”

Brendon pulls Frank into a hug and clings to him. He still doesn’t believe that he’s good for Frank, but he’s maybe a tiny step closer than he was.

“Why aren’t you at work?”

Frank disentangles himself from Brendon’s loosening hold and shrugs as he stands, offering a hand to Brendon when he’s solidly up on his feet.

“Took the rest of the day off. Didn’t have much to do anyways. Suthers was letting people leave early, thought I’d jump on the bandwagon and hunt you down to see why you were hiding from the world after Pete showed up.”

Brendon has the best boyfriend in existence. It’s time he stopped wondering when shit’s going to break apart and begin to invest in being with Frank for a fucking long time. As long as Frank will have him. 

Forever if that option is on the table.

He spends thirty minutes texting with Shannon. It’s three p.m., and there is no gauging how long he and Frank talked. Hell, there’s no way to really tell how long he slept before that. He needs to get a full night’s sleep soon, or he’s going to fuck up even more.

Shannon calls him a dick twice after Brendon texts him to apologize and then spends twelve more cursing his brother and Pete out for being aggravating douches. He doesn’t mention particularly _why_ he’s pissed at them, but Brendon can wager if Pete came to him, Jared probably cornered his brother looking for solidarity or a helping hand. 

It’s not that hard of a connection to make.

Brendon can relate to the ire Shannon feels.

**If nly runng off jning te circus cud wrk**

He sends the text before shuffling to the bathroom to piss. The mirror isn’t kind to his reflection when he looks into it while washing his hands. His eyes are smudged by circles of purple-brown, and his hair seems limp, falling past his ears, droopily. 

Maybe he should cut it, just a little? Nothing drastic, but something with a touch more effort than he’s been putting into it during the past year.

He swigs some mouthwash to mask the taste of dead rat lingering on his tongue, and his phone buzzes a text. He spits before pressing the center key to open the message.

 **teenage dreams shattered**

Shannon follows up the text with another. 

**If you dont drop by before Fri B &J are dragging you here**

Brendon ruffles his hair and watches it fall in all directions. Yeah, he definitely needs a haircut. He pecks at the keys of his phone with a short reply.

 **i’ll rmmber tht**

Calling Gabe isn’t as easy as texting Shannon. There’s more to explain. Gabe doesn’t even let him say _‘hello’_ when he answers.

“Pete is a fucking dick-smack, douchebag on the bad days. You’re not supposed to take everything he says to heart.”

Brendon sighs and stops his mindless wandering of the hallway to stride into his and Frank’s bedroom. He sits on his side of the bed and combs fingers through his hair.

“Did he call you back?”

Gabe winces, the sound is sharp before fading away. Brendon would bet he was moving around and decided, fuck it, he was just going to sit for this conversation.

“No. I’m not stupid, niño. He called to ask where you were. He’s worried, but he’s Pete, and when I woke up you weren’t hanging around. We were going to watch dinosaurs eat people before your shift; you never pass that shit up. Two plus two always equals Pete saying something douchey.”

Brendon stares at the bedside lamp. He’s not sure how much to tell Gabe. What he should edit out.

“He has an idea on who shot up the reception...”

Gabe curses in Spanish.

“Did he tell you who?”

Brendon shakes his head.

“I didn’t ask. Didn’t get that far. He asked me to help my teacher out.”

His phone isn’t bugged, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. Gabe knows who trained him. He _knows_ Andy, even if the guy hasn’t stepped foot in the Moxie since Brendon was nineteen. Despite the fact that he rarely takes out of state jobs. That was always Jon’s gig, and then Brendon’s when he was finally up to snuff.

“Madre de Dios. Kiddo-”

Brendon flexes the fingers of his left hand, turning his gaze away from the lamp to watch them move. There’s some mild discomfort, but otherwise, he’s fine, fucking right as rain again. He could technically pull the remaining stitches out himself if he wanted to. 

“I told him _‘no’_ , Gabe. I said I wouldn’t.”

His voice is steadier than he feels. It’s almost stony, brooking no arguments.

“I wanted to, but I didn’t. I _didn’t_.”

Gabe doesn’t say anything. Brendon listens to him breathe for a second before continuing.

“He...he had the nerve to ask if you knew I’d abandoned you. I haven’t...”

His voice trails off. He doesn’t know where to go with what he was about to say. 

“Brendon-”

“He brought up Jon, how proud he’d be of me for turning my back on my second family. The people who were there after...” 

He’s suddenly furious again. It’s taken him years to slowly become comfortable with himself after losing everything, and Pete just waltzes in and tumbles it all to the ground with a few careless words.

Gabe makes a disgruntled sound before he tries to speak as calmly as possible.

“You know that’s not the truth, right? Please, niño, know that we don’t think that.”

Brendon shakes his head before dropping his gaze to the floor.

“I punched him. He wound me up, and I snapped. I’m not sorry.”

Gabe’s voice is grim and something like pride creeps into his words. “Good. I guess this means I’ll have to make shirts for you and Romeo. _‘I punched Wentz and lived to tell the tale’_.”

Brendon laughs without meaning to. Fuck, he should have just stayed at the apartment and woke Gabe up instead of coming home to wallow. 

“Do you think I can make this work?”

The question comes out of nowhere and Brendon mentally slaps himself. When will he learn to keep his fucking mouth shut? Fucking never, is probably the answer.

“With Frank? Yeah, I do, kiddo. You already are. What brought this on?”

Brendon runs his fingers through his hair again.

“Pete. He said it’s not possible for us to _not_ shake apart. It happened to him and Mikey. What makes Frank and I different?”

Gabe huffs out a breath.

“You just are. For starters, you’re not going back, and Frank isn’t as rigid as Mikey Way with his morals. Don’t listen to anyone else. I have to make an appointment before the office closes. I’ll call you back later. Don’t be a dumbass, and I expect to be reimbursed for the missing bottle of JD, in case you thought I missed that.” 

The line goes dead, and Brendon presses _end_. He’s not exactly steady, but he’s better than he was. He goes back to the guest room and scoops up his pistol, holstering it and fishing the picture of his family out of the pocket of his jeans so he can slide it back into his wallet. 

Frank’s singing along to an Alice in Chains song when Brendon finds him in the living room flipping through the music stations.

“Food will be here shortly. We have time to make out like teenagers if you stop pretending to be Godzilla contemplating a rampage on tiny, little Tokyo. The coffee table’s never done anything to you.”

The rest of the week isn’t as tense. Brendon gets the stitches that haven’t already fallen out pulled out, Gabe starts seeing a physical therapist even though he’s still on the mend, and Frank goes to work without having to leave early for whatever reason.

That doesn’t mean the rest of the world around them is just as lucky. Thursday afternoon a teenager skipping school finds a body in an old, abandoned warehouse. The reporters jump on the story like dogs gnawing on a ham bone.

Friday, there’s another body.

Brendon stops watching the news completely after that. He doesn’t need to witness the theatrics of the media to know there’s going to be a third corpse for the cops to investigate. Andy’s not a serial killer and all the speculation as such gives Brendon a headache. 

Not that the journalists are outright saying that, but their words are clunky when they imply such things. Whoever writes their scripts is a hack. 

Monday, a herbalist shop burns to the ground. The owner is presumed missing until they find him under the rubble with a bullet wound to the head. Brendon’s never stepped foot in the place, but he knows Joe used to run a portion of the illegal substances he peddles for Pete through the backroom.

Joe liked to tell Brendon things when he’d visit Andy. It was his way of trying to pave the way for Brendon’s introduction into the family. He never seemed to get the hint that Brendon didn’t want that. 

Brendon wasn’t one of them. Never was, and never would be, no matter where his occupational path took him. 

If he wanted to, there’s information Joe gave him freely that could be used to bury Pete, but Brendon’s not that callus. He also owes Pete that much. Joe handed him knowledge under the assumption that he was one of them, to turn stool pigeon after all these years would be stupid. 

It’s not like he has hard evidence, anyway. Pete could also drag him down during the ensuing chaos. That’s an event Brendon _really_ doesn’t want occurring. 

Portions of the city begin to panic behind closed doors, and the cops are pissed as fuck. Jared and Pete seem to not give a fuck about collateral damage in the form of helpless bystanders. It’s a wonder the national guard hasn’t been called in to set the city under martial law. 

Bob’s working overtime, and he skips out any time there’s a group function because he’s exhausted. Elaine’s just as scarce, mostly because she’s consulting on cases from an outside perspective. Brendon’s already woken up twice to his phone ringing to know that she’s unhappy about the current state of affairs.

Why she thinks he has any insight into how to solve the issue is beyond his comprehension, but whatever, he’ll do the best he can. Besides Shannon, Elaine’s possibly the only person who has an inkling of his past occupation, and like Shannon, she doesn’t seem to give a fuck. She probably doesn’t even know. Just, the looks she's given him, sometimes, over the years have made him curious.

And nervous and fuck.

Elaine used to be a cop, for Christ’s sake. She’ll do something before he will.

If anything, Shannon will just bring up the tiny irregularities until Brendon cracks; if he ever decides to actually ask. Shannon was brought up in the world of crime. His parents wanted him to be part of the business. When he declined, Jared stepped up. The Letos have for-hire murderers much like Pete does. It’s not like Shannon’s blind to the society he grew up in.

So, yeah. Brendon’s surprised neither one of them have called him out yet. Maybe they never will. That would make him happy.

On Wednesday, Ray calls and Brendon takes his lunch break early so he can drop by the comic book shop to pick up Frank’s birthday present. If he travels out of the city to grab it, Frank’s going to get suspicious. If he has a shipping package mailed to their house, Frank’s going to be just as wary and curious. This way, the house will be empty when Brendon brings it inside. He can hide the box without being questioned or needlessly worrying Frank over things he doesn’t do - will never do - anymore.

Doing things this way was Ray’s idea. As soon as he found out what Brendon was getting Frank for his birthday, Ray immediately wanted to know who Brendon was entrusting such an important task to. Apparently, asking Armstrong for help was the way to go, and Ray had smiled at him like Brendon had done something right. 

How Ray does that shit is weird as fuck, but it’s nice. It’s good to have someone like that around. Someone who’s willing to give Brendon a chance, no questions asked, even knowing the company Brendon keeps.

There’s a couple of college students clustered in a ring at a display when Brendon walks through the entrance. Gerard’s drawing at the front counter, his art toolbox wedged between a box of daily deals and the register monitor. There’s no laptop or mountain of movies nearby. 

Brendon takes that as a good sign. Maybe Gerard’s sketching vampire kittens stalking a zombie mouse or alien pirates from Mars sailing the universe in some weird-ass version of a spaceship with canvas sails. Not female contract killers with oblivious husbands they want to tell all their dirty secrets to.

“Ray’s on the phone with a supplier. He hid Frank’s gift _somewhere_.” Gerard slides off his stool and makes to hunt for the guitar. Brendon just watches with amusement as he comes up empty-handed. 

“I can wait for a few minutes. Gabe knows where I am.”

Gerard smiles and shuffles back to his stool. One of the college students walks up with a purchase while his friends make their escape. Gerard rings up the guy’s purchase and bags the glossy comics after he’s paid. When Gerard’s handing the bag over, the corner of the plastic snags against his sketchbook and the bound pages tumble to the floor.

Brendon bends and scoops up the sketchbook when the college student obviously walks away without dropping to pick it up. A loose page worms its way to the edges of its confines. He tries not to be overly nosy, but Gerard notices. The moment the sketchbook is back in his hands, he flips to the where the loose page is living and gently slips it from its home.

There’s a fragile looking woman standing on her tip-toes, bare feet dusted with sand, with her arms wrapped around the neck of a normal-enough looking guy. Well, normal if Brendon looks past the miles of ink traveling up and down the guy’s arms, and crawling down one of his legs. 

The woman’s smiling and her dress is wind-swept while the guy’s staring down at her with this completely smitten expression on his face. Waves are sketched behind them. Over their heads is a scratchy looking script that says _Juliet & Tony_.

The names seem vaguely familiar, but fuck if he can figure out from where.

Brendon stares at Juliet because he swears he can almost catch the glimpse of a blade outlined near her bra strap. Suddenly, she’s not exactly as fragile as she originally seemed. When he looks closer, he can notice tiny tells in her body language. 

Juliet is dangerous.

“It’s only a rough draft panel of after Jule’s wedding. This is the honeymoon. She’s _so_ happy, but coiled extremely tightly. Her grip on Tony isn’t as loose as I wanted it to be.” 

Gerard’s hands flutter while he talks. Brendon’s glad he doesn’t do that when he’s driving. That would be a disaster waiting to happen. 

“But her stance was never right in any of the other drafts until this one. It’s like she’s already thinking about the future and if she should turn in her notice. Killing suddenly doesn’t hold the same allure to her anymore, you know?”

 _Fuck_ , and that....would be why the name Juliet seemed familiar. Brendon’s saved from saying something damning like _‘yeah, I know’_ , or _‘the detail is good, but does she have another knife clipped to her garter?’_ by Ray, who walks up and claps him on the shoulder.

“Frank’s baby awaits. She’ll be a sight for sore eyes.”

Ray talks about guitars on the way to his office. Brendon wishes he could keep up. When he was fourteen, and even younger than that, music was something he was transfixed by. It was what he wanted to study when he grew up and went to college, even if he knew there would be a fight brewing when that happened.

It mattered _so_ much to him.

Until it didn’t anymore. Until nothing else but breathing and spilling blood did. He’s startled when he realizes picking up music again could be possible, despite the hurt that’s bound to come with the memories he’ll re-live if he ever plays piano or keyboard again.

Suddenly, Brendon wants to do just that. Maybe not as a full time hobby, but as something more than the few random times he’s strummed Frank’s old guitar. Ray gives him a worried glance when Brendon leans heavily against the wall right before his office door while he unlocks it.

“You know, none of Frankie’s past boyfriends have done something like this for his birthday. It’s always been tacky joke cards and random trinkets he tosses after the breakup. He’s lucky to have you.”

Brendon straightens and tries not to shrug. He doesn’t want Ray to think Frank’s birthday isn’t a big deal to him, but he doesn’t feel like he deserves the subtextual pride lurking in Ray’s words. 

He’s not really worth the praise. 

If he’s going to do something, he’s going to try his damnedest to do it right. Frank’s important, so he deserves a better gift than a tacky little trinket.

“I don’t really celebrate commercial holiday gift giving and I wanted something special.” 

He could say more. Less is always better though. Andy broke him of his extra-excessive babbling habit years ago. There are a select few he’s been know to ramble at. Mostly, he doesn’t because doing so could get him arrested. A life behind bars has never been something he’s been very fond of. 

“Well, you’re accomplishing that in spades. We’re planning a last-minute party at the Barrel’s Bottom. A merry band of friends of his are visiting for a show there. It’d be good to have your help herding him to the bar.”

Brendon nods without thinking about what he’s being asked. Of course he doesn’t mind helping. He was going to ask Gerard when he left if there were any plans, or if he needed to think of something extremely last-minute himself.

Ray mentions more random fun-facts about guitar styles when Brendon picks up the shipping box. It’s heavy, but he can manage it himself. If he hurries, he can make it home and hide the guitar in one of the seldom-used guest rooms. A closet would be a nice spot away from the nightly drops in temperature that have been happening lately. Whereas leaving the box in his trunk for who knows how long could cause issues.

He runs into Ray’s new night supervisor on his way out. Dallon’s a good guy. Brendon’s met him before. He used to supervise the dawn shift at the coffee shop and pulled a few nights with Ian and Cash. 

It’s good to see Ray’s making enough of a profit that he can hire more help while sitting on the fence as a neutral party to the Leto-Wentz crime family feuds. It probably helps that there’s not another comic book shop in this area that seems to be able to grow roots. Plus, everyone likes Ray. He’s a solid guy no one wants to piss off or take advantage of.

Dallon says _‘hi’_ and Brendon nods in acknowledgement before bustling out to his car. If he had more time, he’d stay and chat for a bit. As it is, he has maybe forty minutes left, and that’s if he speeds. Getting pulled over by a cop is not something he wants, so he’ll be a little late getting back. It’s not like he’s going to get fired, just as long as he doesn’t abuse his privileges, he should be fine.

The rest of the day passes without fanfare. One of the Leto’s bookkeeping firms gets burglarized on Friday. Brendon tries not to shuffle closer in the checkout line at the Publix when the old woman in front of him starts gossiping to her equally elderly husband about the recent string of violent acts popping up like fireflies lighting up in the dusky hours of an early summer night. It’s Saturday morning, and he hasn’t so much as glanced at a newspaper in over a week. His and Frank’s tv tends to veer away from any news broadcast that they come to. 

If it’s extremely important, Gabe will pull him aside and tell him. The Moxie’s closing staff, Brendon included, are already walking to their vehicles after shift together. None of them really think they’ll be targeted because Gabe has legitimate connections not Wentzian, and Jared’s not stupid enough to mess with that. It’s one thing to goad Pete, and another to fuck with the people not involved who know clean lawyers and cops who can’t be bribed or blackmailed into botching a criminal investigation. 

Why Jared hasn’t gone after Pete directly yet, and vise versa, is a fucking mystery of the universe. Not that Brendon’s complaining. He’d rather that didn’t happen even if he doesn’t care if they kill each other. The only thing worse than a war is an internal power struggle happening on both sides of the fence, because if Pete goes down, he’s sure as hell going to take Jared with him. Screw the innocents they pull down with them. 

There might be anarchy for a time afterwards, but chaos is like any highly fatal disease; it burns through its victims much too quickly to stake a long-lasting claim. Eventually, someone - on both sides - will stand up and reign the violence in. 

However, the evil you know is much better than one you don’t.

The cashier eyes him when he just stares at her instead of returning her greeting when the old couple leaves the line. He blinks and shrugs when he realizes he’s been lost in thought, not answering her. He doesn’t apologize. 

Work is hectic and, while he’s sleeping somewhat better than he was, with Gabe in and out of the Moxie sporadically, he’s been helping out as much as he can. Exhausted is an understatement, but he’s off today. He got to sleep in and now he’s shopping.

Frank’s hanging out with Mikey and some people Brendon hasn’t met yet, so he has the day to himself. Frank asked him if he wanted to join in on the exciting life of grown men pretending to be teenagers again. Mikey might be slightly less frigid to him, but Brendon said no. He loves Frank. That doesn’t mean they have to do everything together. It’s awesome that Frank wants to include him and that Brendon wants to do the same thing. However, it’s good to sometimes spend time apart.

Also, he’s not necessarily a huge fan of knocking down stop signs with the back bumpers of cars. Or stealing reflecting yard stakes to stage a reflector yard takeover when the sun sinks for the night.That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have fond fucking memories of watching Benji have a drunken conversation with a lawn flamingo after they reflectored the yard of some stuffy rich asshole, nicking the flamingo as a trophy in the process.

The twins, and to a lesser regard, Shannon were always about exposing a much younger Brendon to things twenty-something guys should have grown out of years ago. Stealing construction cones to create detours on perfectly fine side streets, going to residential areas and raking fall leaves into the road to build three foot barricades, and a slew of other dumbass things that surprisingly never landed them in jail.

Brendon shakes his head at the memories and pays the cashier, trying his best to smile without seeming too creepy. Despite the world around them going to shit, and the shifts he’s pulling, he’s happy. Even happier than when he first moved in with Frank. The summer feels like it was years ago and it’s tough sometimes trying to look back and realizing he’s changed drastically since last September.

Once he’s home, he puts groceries away and washes a few dishes. He starts a load of clothes, his phone ringing as he’s bending to shove shirt sleeves in when they keep slithering out. Fishing his phone out of his back pocket takes a moment. He slams the washer door shut simultaneously with answering the call, the sound is loud in the quiet laundry room.

“You’re free for the day and cleaning? Brenny Brenny Brenny, you need some fun in your life. When you’re finished with your chores, you need to come rescue little Ian from boredom.”

Brendon stands and laughs. Benji is as bad as Gabe sometimes. It’s not that Brendon wants to clean. He’s not really a neat freak, but picking up a little, often, is easier than staging a full-frontal assault on a room that hasn’t been touched in months.

“You mean rescue _you_ from the boredom monster? Ian’s probably listening to “Ten Years Gone” on repeat just to irritate you and your brother. He’s not in need of any rescuing, but give me an hour and a half and I’ll see if I can come out and play.”

“We’ll see you in two hours. If you vanish from the face of the earth, we’re forming a search party to come find you.”

Brendon hangs up with a grin on his face muttering _promises, promises, promises_ under his breath. The washer kicks into its cycle and he hops up on top of it, thankfully it’s a side loading machine and not an upright model. Sunlight slips in through the slits in the curtain hanging over the single window in the room. The space around him feels airy and bright.

He was going to cook tonight, but there’s no telling when he’ll be in if he goes out now. That means it’s another pizza night. The washer hums under him as he types out a text.

 **pzza gud 4 2nt? hv lst mnt plns**

He hits send and jumps off the top of the washer. It’s been years since he’s perched on a washing machine. When he was nine, he’d pester his mother by climbing up onto the top while she dragged dry clothing from the dryer into a laundry basket so she could fold them. 

After they had to move, he’d do the same thing at the laundry mats when his mother would pack up their car with baskets of dirty laundry and they’d spend four hours frozen in time while everything became clean again. She’d frown at him and drag him off the machines, like they were somehow better than everyone else slumming it to wash their garments, saying that he shouldn’t act like he didn’t know how to behave when he did.

She’d tell him to act his age, to stop being a clown. Occasionally he’d get her to smile though, with his mock innocent faces and fake pouts. It became a game between them, and when he was thirteen, it kept him from focusing too much on how lonely he was at school and at home. 

Once his brothers and sisters were old enough to leave, they went to college or got jobs, found tiny apartments for themselves nearby and did their best not to financially burden his parents like he did. It meant that he had no one to really relate to, especially after they moved. The other children living near their duplex were either much too young to hold his attention or almost college age and didn’t like him for whatever reasons they could come up with daily, while the kids at school eyed him like he had the spazz plague.

His phone buzzes and he presses send to read the message 

**wrks 4 m. whr2?**

Instead of typing a reply, Brendon hits speed dial and waits for Frank to pick up. He doesn’t have to wait long.

“Prom.”

When he wanders into the living room to look out the pane of glass set into the front door, he watches one of the neighbor kids ride his bike down the street. 

“It’s October smartass, but it’s good to know you’d go without me. I hear high school students are vicious. My delicate nature could be violated by all those hormones.” 

Brendon snorts and chuckles before resting his forehead against the glass. The suburbs are quaint. He likes it here. The Cadburys’ across the street greet him with waves and smiles when he checks the mail and one of them is around outside, doing whatever it is normal families do.

“Because we know _just_ how fragile you really are, Frankie.” Brendon presses his smile against the moist glass before pulling back enough to speak again. “Benji called, he needs a distraction, apparently business is slow today.”

Frank curses at someone in the background. 

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t. I gotta go before Asshole Number One gets us arrested for condiment theft. Love you.”

Brendon doesn’t get a chance to return the sentiment, but that’s okay. It’s nothing to worry about.

After the clothes finish washing, he throws them in the dryer and calls Gabe to listen to him bitch about his physical therapist and how Nate’s threatening to move back to the city to act as Gabe’s keeper. Because Gabe’s been pushing himself farther - harder - than he should, and he’s not listening to Victoria, Ryland, or Brendon. If he’ll listen to anyone, maybe it’ll be Nate. 

Gabe mentions his lawyer, Alex, and how he still hasn’t hired a new maid yet. Brendon gets roped into stopping by the apartment tomorrow after his short Sunday shift to help Gabe clean. 

He only puts up a token protest.

By the time the clothes finish drying, he’s been off the phone for ten minutes. He’s in the guest bedroom staring at his pistol when the dryer buzzes. The Infinity has taken up residence in the bedside table drawer. Frank’s not a huge fan of the gun and Brendon’s conceded to not carrying it around just yet. 

However, all bets are off if shit escalates to include the Moxie or any other establishment they frequent. Knives can suffice for now. He’s deadly enough with a blade anyways, they’re just not as instantaneous as a bullet is. 

“The Autumn Effect” is playing in the background when he pushes past the entrance of Gemini Cartography. Ian’s busy with a guy who looks like he could be a biker, which fails to explain why Zeppelin isn’t playing. Brendon expects the biker to complain and gruffly demand Ozzy or Alice Cooper. Ten Years isn’t exactly tough and hardcore. Not that Brendon knows, or has an opinion on the subject.

He’ll listen to almost anything. When he was younger, pop, classic rock, and old Motown hits where the things he heard the most. Now that he’s older, and rougher around the edges, it’s easier to get lost in tougher sounds. Punk and heavy rock tend to fill that slot.

Shannon tilts his phone at Brendon in greeting before going back to his text conversation. 

“Cyrano found himself a young grasshopper to train.”

“The kid’s green as fuck and flailtastic. It’s hilarious.”

Brendon gets tugged into two hugs, one right after another. Benji and Joel laugh and the rest of the afternoon is spent reliving past conquests of delinquency. Joel sibling blackmails Benji into letting him add to Brendon’s unfinished tattoo. 

Joel’s just as experienced as Benji, and if anything, the shift in interpretation should translate in an interesting way. Brendon’s up for anything. Hopefully this time, he’ll be prepared for what he might see. 

His parts of the conversation drops off at times, when he gets too distracted by the pain. Ian comes by to watch Joel work when he’s free. Benji mentions the time they collected rocks from a gravel yard and spelled out _penny-pinching douchebag_ on the freezing concrete of some random person’s front porch during the late-ass hours of a frigidly cold winter’s night. 

Brendon remembers that night. He was twenty-one, on his way to being thoroughly plastered, and had been home for three days after a job that was easier than he’d expected. An ad exec. with a penchant for slipping product secrets to rival businesses who loved to dominate his wife and two little daughters. He’d finally pissed his own father off enough that it was imperative to get rid of the guy for the company to grow without complications springing up at every turn. Not to mention, the worry the father had concerning his granddaughters safety. 

That hit was less of a show of goodwill and more of lending a helping hand because Pete knew the father’s other son through some connections or something. The fact that Brendon went in and came out during the Christmas holiday hadn’t mattered. Busy shoppers and overworked employees were less likely to remember one more customer looking for guitar strings, or a roll of duct tape for when some toy or gift broke in a way that was non-returnable. 

It’s not like he really celebrates anymore anyway. Gabe’s a non-practicing Jew and Brendon doesn’t do religion. Most winter holidays, excluding the ones spent with Shannon and/or the twins, if he was in town and not at the shelters serving soup to the homeless, he and Gabe would watch depressing war movies from Gabe’s couch and eat Chinese take-out when not at the Moxie. 

Last December, the thirteen days leading up to and the week after Christmas, Brendon skipped the shelters, soup kitchens, and seeking out the twins out of fear of backsliding. Either he was at work busting his ass, drunk as fuck staring at the ratty ceiling of his shit-hole apartment, or at Gabe’s finding other ways to forget. 

This year is a complete and utter mystery to him when it comes to what he’ll be doing. Frank celebrates, and Brendon’s willing to try even though he’s sure he’ll end up hiding in one of the guest bedrooms wishing he could get drunk and forget all the shit that haunts him. 

It’ll be thirteen years since he lost his family and he’s just shoved everything down without working through the hurt, anger, and abandonment issues. It’s time he finally tried to make peace with his past. If he wants to start moving on, then this is a step he _has_ to take, no matter how difficult it will be. Shit gets tougher before it gets easier, and Brendon’s already gotten this far. He can do this. 

He’s not alone and he’s not giving up.

“Seeing you bliss out is weird as fuck, yet somehow also ridiculously hilarious. The guys were right, fascinating.”

Ian smiles at him and Brendon stretches to poke him in the stomach, hard. The gleeful little boy grin drops from his face for a moment before reappearing. Joel grumbles and says something along the lines of _‘idiots fucking up my zen’_. 

Benji laughs.

Joel starts cleaning up, and Brendon decides to glance at his arm. Joel ignored the rest of the outlining in favor of focusing on the tiny flowers. Some of them seem fused to the piano keys, while others melt - the petals forming psychedelic teardrops that reflect the glint of the guitar wire. A couple of the flowers are tattered, brown tracing the wilted edges. There are places where the petals are bland, missing pigment, but on the whole, his tattoo is closer to being complete than it was before.

Flexing his fingers pulls at skin and muscle. Brendon smiles through the pain. He can handle this; can wear his past and the hope for a better future on the surface like some badge of honor instead of a brand meant to bring him low. 

Back in September, he wasn’t prepared. It’s been a month, and somehow those twenty plus days have made all the difference in the world. But then, Brendon’s come through the other side of an event that could have crippled his progress. Gabe getting shot still haunts his dreams. 

There’s no way it can’t. 

He could have cracked. Broken when Pete asked him to come back to the fold. He didn’t, Gabe’s alive, and Frank supports him. There’s more promise in his life than there once was, and oddly enough the flowers represent that.

Joel washes his hands before taping up Brendon’s tattoo, the same way Benji did last time. 

“We’re still not finished. You’re farther down the rabbit hole than you were, though.”

Brendon nods.

“Thanks. Though I’m worried now. All this freaky imagery makes me wonder if I need to set up an intervention. Someone’s been hitting the good stuff and not sharing. I’m sad.”

Ian almost falls off of his rolling stool laughing. Benji grins like a shark, Joel flips him off, and Shannon yells from the front of the shop _‘we didn’t want to scandalize your whitebread lifestyle.’_ Brendon shakes his head, grinning ear to ear.

“You’re a mutt, Brenny. When’s the last time you had your hair cut?”

Fuck, he doesn’t remember. It’s been over a year, at least. When he says that, Benji mocks being insulted and Joel pulls out his cell phone, typing out a text quickly and pressing send with a flourish.

“Nicole’s getting her Cosmetology license. The community college always needs guinea pigs and they do easy shit for half the cost of a regular barber shop or salon.”

Joel doesn’t mention that Nicole’s one of them and not really a big fan of the criminal underground. He doesn’t have to. Brendon’s met her before. She’s interesting to say the least. No wonder she’s friends with Joel.

In ten minutes’ time, he has an appointment at the community college for Monday morning. Brendon just smiles and accepts the slot. If Gabe finds out he’s anywhere near that campus, he’ll be nagged into swinging by the admissions office to see when enrollment for the new semesters start. Brendon doesn’t really feel the urge to go to college. He enjoys working at the Moxie and there’s not really anything else he wants to learn.

Brendon spends a few more hours with the guys, jumping in with sarcastic comments and outlandish humor. No one calls him on it. To say he’s been dour - gloomy - in the past would be an understatement. It’s weird slipping back into the skin he used to inhabit as a teenager, but it’s refreshing and not something that’s come out of nothing. He’s slowly falling back into his old patterns. First, it was only ever around Gabe or Victoria and Ryland. Then Frank, and now, it just makes sense to not shove the humor down.

Laughing doesn’t make him ungrateful or guilty. He’s allowed to be happy, and _wow_ , has that taken forever to sink in. Perhaps living is a better legacy left for him to fulfill than being stagnant and furious at the world for being violent and cruel.

The sun’s already set, and it’s chilly when he leaves for his car. His phone is warm in his hand when he tugs it out of his pocket. The Dominos near their house is a chain but not locally owned. Brendon searches for the number in his contacts folder and presses send when he finds it. He places an order while unlocking the driver’s side door of his car. Maybe he should start thinking about getting a newer model. He’ll have to wait a year or so, because he’s not rich and randomly popping up with a shiny vehicle would put him on the cops radar. Shit like that is stupid and easily avoidable. 

His tattoo is already costing him enough, as did Frank’s guitar. He’d rather not send up red flags a year after going legit. The Dominos chick takes his order with ease. Frank and he usually order the same veggie pizza when they call, it’s not hard to remember. Instead of opting for delivery, he tells her he’ll pick it up.

The Dominos is tackily decorated for Halloween and Brendon sits in the dining area texting Gerard costume ideas and getting back outlandish alternatives while he waits for his pizza. He vetos everything Gerard mentions. He’ll go all out next year. This year he still feels fragile and wants to be conservative about his costume choice.

When he gets home, he sets the pizza on the counter in the kitchen and wanders into the living room. There’s not really anything playing on the tv that he wants to watch. He’s browsing through Frank’s vast dvd collection when he comes across a case that’s been hidden - badly - shoved behind _Iron Man_ , its sequel, and both _Hellboy_ titles. 

Brendon’s curiosity gets the better of him. Pulling all four movies out at the same time, he snags the dvd case that’s been dropped behind them. It’s not like he’s expecting porn or some weird video will. Frank keeps his skin flicks on his computer in a file labeled _for a good time_ and he doesn’t have a will, to the best of Brendon’s knowledge.

Jean Reno stares at him from behind shadowy glasses. Brendon sighs and looks down at the case clenched in his hand. You know what? He’s tired of being scared of a fucking movie. Frank’s a damn epic boyfriend for hiding the dvd, but it’s been found now and Brendon’s tired of this. He’s never been one to not stare down his fears eventually.

He pops the disc into the dvd player, cuts off the living room lights, and sits on the edge of the center sofa cushion. The room is dark. He refuses to get up for a beer or twelve. There are scenes that hurt. The movie is well-made and, objectively, it’s easy to see why Frank would own a copy, why Gerard would be so obsessed with the characters, and why they watched this as a group for movie night back months ago.

It’s never going to mean the same thing to Brendon as it does to them. The closest he’s ever going to get is the sense of acceptance that he’s falling into as he watches it this time. When it came on early last month, watching felt like punishment, but right now, Brendon doesn’t feel that prickle of deserved hurt needling against his skin.

He’s calm. Well, as calm as he’s ever going to get around movies about hit men, and especially a movie that parallels a snapshot portion of his life in eerily familiar ways. Keys scrape the deadbolt and Brendon doesn’t even tense. He’s watching Matilda try to seduce Leon feeling slightly embarrassed for following the same course of action with Jon. 

Of course there are glaring differences. Brendon was older than Matilda when shit went pear-up and a guy so there was always a higher chance he had heard other guys at school mention things about hookers and other really sketchy things. Plus, in the movie, Matilda seems to think seduction is a way to show that she cares and that’s how relationships go. Conversely, Brendon felt indebted to Jon and there was no way in hell he had money to pay for services. 

Sex seemed like a sensible option to go with, even though he was a virgin and nervous as fuck. 

It was a fine example of his uncanny ability to jump to the extremes instead of thinking first. Luckily, Jon hadn’t felt the need to capitalize on Brendon’s stupidity. 

He hadn’t lied when he told Gabe about the conversation that came after that blunder. It was a disaster. And with years settling between the event and now, Brendon can see the humor in that moment. God, he was so pink-cheeked and mortified, while Jon kept breaking away from talking to fumble with his words. 

Brendon’s laughing to himself when the light flicks on. Frank’s puttering around behind him, taking off his coat and hanging it up near the door. 

“Pizza’s in the kitchen.”

Frank answers with some unintelligible mumble. Brendon faintly hears him go into the kitchen and pauses the movie. The pizza’s cold when the box thumps against the surface of the coffee table. Hell, half the time they have pizza, the damn slices are chilled. He doesn’t really mind. 

Pizza is pizza. 

Frank sits down next to him and flips open the top of the box. “What are we watching?” 

Brendon passes over the dvd case. He notices the way Frank stiffens at his side. It’s not hard to miss.

“You don’t have to watch this. There’s a reason I hid it.”

Brendon reaches for a slice of pizza and notices the beer. It’s tempting to just snatch one and drain it, but he has more control than that. He’s already been there and done that. He survived last time, somehow, and Frank decided to keep him. There’s nothing to dwell on.

He shakes his head.

“I don’t, no.”

Frank nods, leans forward, and snags the remote. 

“Then let’s not right now.”

He presses the stop button and switches the tv out of movie mode and scrolls until he gets to an old episode of _Still Standing_. Bright colors dance across the screen. Brendon bites into his slice of pizza and tries not to feel grateful. 

Perhaps he’s not ready to tackle this particular hurdle just yet. 

However, his chest doesn’t hurt and he’s not being crushed by guilt. The emotions are still there, still very much present and accessible, but suddenly there’s distance between him and them. It’s an eerie concept to experience, yet welcome.

He can always try again at a later time.

During a commercial for some bad tv movie about a down-and-out hooker, Frank mentions an ex who was a prostitute. He eats his pizza and talks about the three months he was with her and all the shit he learned.

“Sometimes you just gotta cut your losses. People aren’t going to change unless they want to. Love isn’t always enough and sometimes the moment isn’t right.”

Brendon nods. He understands in a way, even if he’s never really dated people. Gabe couldn’t force him to stop picking up hits. He had to do that himself. Thank fuck, he never pushed Gabe away.

“Look who’s being the Droopy Donna. We can watch Lifetime or WE if you want?”

Brendon smiles brightly. Hopefully, he looks like an innocent five year old exclaiming about PANCAKES and not a devious adult. Frank narrows his eyes and Brendon steals his beer, upending the can and emptying it in two swallows. 

Frank goes to poke him and Brendon tips his weight against Frank. Unbalanced, they tumble to the floor, wedged between the coffee table and the sofa. Brendon laughs while Frank grumbles at him. 

A few well placed ticklish touches and Frank’s trying to not choke on a string of giggles. 

“And lo the sun rose, bathing the land in light.”

Brendon beams when Frank smiles, and Frank pokes him in the side.

“Dorkish asshole.” 

“You expected someone else?”

Frank arches an eyebrow as if to say _‘you’re really asking that, REALLY?’_ Which, okay, is a valid point. Brendon’s slowly but surely been working his way up to being playful, but it’s not like Frank’s been blind-sided or anything. He knew going in that Brendon was hyper and full of energy. The sarcasm and thrashing has been a somewhat stilted natural progression to his present actions.

“My boyfriend, and not a twelve year old hyped up on sugar.”

Brendon mutters _twelve years old my ass_ and shifts to pin Frank to the carpet. They make out until Frank presses his palms against Brendon’s shoulders to get him to back off.

“We’re too fucking old for this. The bedroom’s just down the hall. Off motherfucker, you’re heavy.”

Brendon purposefully lets his weight drop. He needs to start back on his push ups again because he’s almost shaky. His exercising has fallen to the wayside since he bought a car, since he moved in with Frank. It’s not like he’s gained weight, but he is slowly warping out of shape and apparently he’s been so wrapped up in everything else to really think about it. 

He kinda misses the blankness. 

Frank pushes him off and pokes him in the stomach, _hard_.

“You’re heavy doesn’t translate to please _do_ crush me some more, jackass.” 

They leave the pizza sitting on the coffee table, next to the cans of beer and the tv remote. Brendon will shove the box in the fridge before he falls asleep. 

Sunday, he wakes up, does a few push ups, takes a shower, stares at Frank while he sleeps, and gets ready for work. He eyes the box still sitting on the coffee table as he’s heading for the door. Oops. Well, that explains the wayward thought that he was forgetting something last night before he passed out wrapped around Frank. He’ll deal with it later. The house is cool, the pizza’s not going to rot.

Victoria has him cleaning the dance side of things after he clocks in. It’s always a disaster on Sundays. The floor’s sticky and needs more attention than what he wants to give. 

It gets it anyways. 

Business goes slow when they open the doors for customers. Five hours drag by, but eventually the time ticks over to four. He’s clocked out and in the parking lot fifteen minutes after.

Helping Gabe with cleaning chores is always interesting, even more so now that Gabe’s working with a mild handicap when pointing the spray nozzle that attaches to the kitchen sink at him. Brendon’s going to capitalize on that shit. He doesn’t actually want to be drenched by cold water. This isn’t summer, and he’s not seven and begging for a water fight in the front yard.

By the time he’s on his way back home, his pants have been ruined by bleach stains. Gabe’s fault, not his own. Apparently, he’s trying to bring the nineties back. Gabe’s laughing words, not his. His right shirt sleeve is tattered around the cuff. Why the hell he thought it was a smart idea to fiddle with the weird looking vacuum Gabe rescued from _somewhere_ pricey is beyond his comprehension. 

He was afraid the thing was sentient as he was trying to fix it and it valiantly attempted to eat his arm. Gabe, once again, just laughed his ass off. Well, he did, until Brendon threatened to turn the vacuum monster on him. Then he shut up, cutting off his laughter the best he could behind a smarmy grin.

When Brendon gets home, Frank’s in the kitchen cooking something that smells awesome. 

“You look like you tried to tackle a bear.”

As greetings go, it’s not the worst he’s ever heard, or had directed at him.

“A bleach throwing tree with a bad sense of humor might have been involved. No bears though.”

Frank chuckles, cuts the stove down to simmer, and takes enough steps to curl his fingers in Brendon’s ruined work shirt. 

“A fucking shame, man. Did the tree make it out alive?”

Brendon nods. 

“What type of hack do you take me for?”

Frank grins at him.

“My hack?”

Brendon worms his hand under Frank’s shirt to touch skin.

“Damn straight.”

Frank’s mystery dish almost burns because Brendon has him backed up against the kitchen counter, near the sink, trying to get him to make happy sex noises. It’s a game Brendon loves to play. Frank might enjoy exploiting Brendon’s pain kink, but Brendon’s just as content winding Frank up with ticklish touches and breathy words. 

Somehow, they break away from each other before supper becomes a biohazard. Sunday night goes well, and he wakes up Monday morning to Frank getting dressed for work. Brendon tugs him down and kisses him. Frank complains about morning breath half-heartedly and Brendon calls him an old man.

That gets him a vulgar hand gesture and a poke to the ribs.

“It’s too early to tease.”

Frank slides off of the bed and straightens his work shirt.

“I’ll show you teasing later. We can compare notes.”

The sarcasm is heavy in his voice. Brendon flips him off before burrowing back under the warm covers. The end of October is cold as fuck, even with the heat on. Their pile of winter comforters are toasty and inviting. 

Brendon’s been thinking about buying a quilt for their bed as a Christmas present. Frank’s already said they don’t have to do anything amongst themselves this year. He kinda wants to though, just to see. 

Decide how the present syncs up with the past. 

When he finally crawls out of bed, and the house, Nicole greets him with a smile and cuts his hair. The style isn’t really edgy nor is it extremely professional. 

Brendon likes it. 

It’s shorter than it was. However, it lacks the severeness his past styles have exhibited. Nicole tries to talk him into lightening his hair and he declines. He likes the brown shade just fine.

Ryland jokes about his hair when he clocks in for work later on in the day. He’s running the show today and Victoria is tomorrow. She still drops by to check on everything while she’s running errands. Her fingers card through his hair when she decides to take notice of the change.

Gabe shows up to supervise and Nate calls to yell at him for not actually resting while on the vacation he’s _supposed_ to be taking. It’s a moot point. Even Nate knows that. Brendon expects him to show up any day now. Gabe’s recovering fine, but Nate’s as bad of a cursing mother hen as he is. 

Frank’s on his cell phone, sitting on the sofa, backlit by the living room lights, when Brendon closes the front door behind him. He’s saying _‘bye’_ before Brendon can guess who’s on the other end of the line.

“How was your day, _dearest love_?”

Brendon shrugs while trying not to laugh.

“The same as ever, _cupcake_.”

Frank almost falls off of the sofa cushion because of how hard he’s laughing. 

“Okay...no pet names. We suck at them.”

They kind of do. Brendon smiles, bends to unlace his shoes, kicks them off, pads to the sofa on socked feet, and drops to sit next to Frank.

“Gabe’s still refusing to acknowledge the vacation time he’s supposedly taking, so he can pester his therapist more, when he’s not at the club supervising. His sessions should be over with already. PT isn’t supposed to walk you through all steps of recovery. I thought they just gave you the tools to get better and made sure you weren’t fucking up the exercises enough to be some sort of malformed question mark by the projected well again timeframe.”

Frank snickers, reaching out a hand to play with Brendon’s shorter hair.

“I miss your longer hair already, less to pull, but you’ll always be a princess to me.”

His fingers twine severals strands together before he stops, his hand dropping to his thigh.

“Maybe he’s pigtail pulling?”

Brendon makes a face without meaning to. Frank starts to laugh again. 

“You’re acting like Gabe and sex don’t belong together when you’ve slept with the guy. You’re totally scandalized by the thought.” Frank’s words are tinged with gleeful humor. Brendon leans against him and shrugs.

“It’s just _weird_ imagining him with someone not Nate or William. There’s a bet at the Moxie on how much longer it’ll take before Nate shows up and they work through their issues. Ryland’s shooting for Christmas Eve. Vicky-T’s down for three days after Valentine’s day.”

Frank’s right arm snakes behind Brendon’s back to settle at his hip, fingers curling into his belt loop.

“What about you?”

Brendon doesn’t pause to think about his answer. 

“I’m not betting.” He untangles Frank’s fingers and stands. “Do you want pasta?”

Frank shrugs and gives Brendon a looks that says _‘you’re not fooling me, something’s up’_. Brendon wanders into the kitchen and starts hunting for the good pot. It’s solid and heavy. It would be a good tool if push came to shove during a home invasion scenario. 

Frank’s already jokingly accused him of eloping with the damn thing twice. Brendon can’t help it. The pot does its job well. 

“Why not?”

Frank doesn’t even elaborate when he asks. Brendon finishes salting the hot water; it ripples in the pot when he accidentally knocks his hand against the handle. He doesn’t know how to explain why, other than it seems wrong to do. It’s all in good fun. No one’s being malicious about it. That doesn’t take the feeling of wrongness he gets from the idea alone. None of the staff seem to care that he’s playing no man’s land on this one. For that, he’s thankful.

Brendon shrugs before answering “I don’t know. Just don’t want to. It’s a little too much like meddling for my tastes.”

Brendon’s witnessed Gabe’s attempts at relationships over the years. They rarely work out well. If anyone has a chance, it’s either Nate or William. And Brendon doesn’t want to push that. If it happens, it happens. Betting’s not going to change shit.

Frank comes up behind him and rests his forehead between Brendon’s shoulder blades while his hands find their way into the front pockets of his pants. The pressure is comforting; a tiny thing that grounds him. 

“So what did you get me for my birthday? I’m surprised you haven’t shown me yet.” 

Brendon watches the water start to boil and adds the pasta without answering him. Frank twists his left hand in Brendon’s pants pocket and pinches the top of his thigh. Brendon shudders involuntarily and curses under his breath. Fuck, when did he become so easy to play physically?

“Tell _meeeee_. You know you want too.”

Frank punctuates his words with more pinches when his right hand travels out of the pocket it was in to wander under Brendon’s shirt to get at more sensitive skin. 

“And you want to be a brat. It’s not tomorrow yet. You _do_ have patience. I’ve seen it.” 

By the time they’re sitting in front of the tv after supper, he’s already caved. Heaven help the world if Frank decides to become an evil overlord. He says as much and ends up being tugged and pulled until he’s straddling Frank’s thighs, bending down to chase Frank’s laughter with breathless kisses. 

“You could be one of my advisors. After all, I’ll need a five year old on staff.”

Brendon pulls away enough to shove at Frank’s shoulders in mock aggravation. Leave it to his boyfriend to bring up the online overlord list.

“Ha. Ha. Ha. I’m banning Hawaiian shirts. I don’t care if it’s a good idea. Just, _no_.” 

Frank laughs and tugs him down for another kiss. When they break apart to breathe, he looks up at Brendon and smiles like he’s seven and outside a candy store with ten dollars in his hand.

“You going to take me to my gift or do I have to do all the work?”

Brendon rolls his eyes and slides off of Frank’s thighs to stand. When he’s up, he bends to wrap his fingers around Frank’s wrist, dragging Frank to his feet in one swift motion. Frank laughs and clutches at his shoulder while he’s finding his balance. The smile that creases the corners of Brendon’s mouth is involuntary; he’s still strong enough to be surprising, in good ways. It makes him happy knowing that.

“You know how to sweep a maiden up onto her feet, I’ll give you that.”

Yeah, Brendon’s going to have to work harder to pencil in daily exercise time now, especially if shit like this is going to continue happening. 

Once Frank’s not wobbly, Brendon steers him into the second spare room; the guest room that isn’t technically his. There’s remnants of a teenage boy’s life lurking in the corners, and in one instance, right in the center of the far-facing wall in the form of a band poster for some punk band he’s never heard of. If he had to guess, Brendon would bet that this used to be Frank’s room when he was younger. Before he moved into the master bedroom, when he came back home, and after his mom was buried. 

The guitar’s in the closet and Frank tackles him when Brendon shows him.

“If I got it wron-”

He doesn’t get a chance to apologize for anything he might have taken liberties with because Frank’s dragging him down into a messy kiss that’s more like an excited clash of lips and teeth than anything else.

“You are totally my favorite.”

The words are whispered against his bottom lip as Frank moves out of the kiss. Frank glances towards the guitar box and Brendon nods when he looks at it like a happy puppy ready for a walk.

“I didn’t get it for you to stare at it like it’s museum art.”

And like that, Frank’s opening the box, pulling the guitar out, and tuning it in quick succession. Brendon sits on the bed and scoots upwards until his back hits the headboard. Frank settles at the side of the mattress while he fiddles with strings and shit. He curses about not having his favorite pick with him before falling into a lazy strum of an eighties ballad.

Brendon laughs.

“Poison. Really, Frankie? Ray’s been texting you Bill and Ted quotes again, hasn’t he?” 

Frank stops playing long enough to flip him off.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know the Rescue Rangers theme off the top of my head.”

Brendon is _never_ going to live that down. One time of looking up old clips of Disney cartoons on youtube and Frank hasn’t let the incident go yet.

“That’s because you have shit taste in tv show theme songs.”

Almost seamlessly, Frank changes cords to start playing Guns N’ Roses. 

“Better?”

Brendon snorts and shakes his head.

“You’re missing the massive amounts of frizzy hair and a top hat. Might as well give up before you get too far behind.”

Frank laughs and falls into playing something Brendon’s never heard before. It’s a cross between playful and held back; a tangled up mire of positives and negatives that blend into each other effortlessly.

The rest of the night flows by with a steady stream of banter and random songs. Tuesday morning, Brendon blinks blearily several times when Frank’s cell alarm blares “This Is Halloween” to wake them up. After birthday shower sex that involved Brendon trying not to breathe gallons of water while giving a blow job - somehow it’s a trick he’s yet to master - Frank dresses for work and kisses him twice before running out the door. 

Brendon falls asleep with wet hair and wakes up with a weird gravity-defying style when his phone rings the Rescue Rangers theme. He’s going to have to change all of Frank’s ringtones to My Little Pony soundbites in retaliation. Turnabout is only fair play, after all.

There’s a text from Gerard saying there’s a tiny change in plans. He and Mikey are going to come over before they go to the bar to make sure Brendon doesn’t dress up as some frat brother or something else equally stupid and low maintenance. It’s not like tonight’s festivities is a secret anymore; Frank sweet-talked Gerard into telling him Thursday night.

Predictably, Gerard buckled like a twig being used to support the weight of semi when that happened. There was no hope for him when Frank started in on the pestering like a six year old asking _‘are we there yet’_ during a long car ride. 

Seriously, Brendon’s in love with an evil overlord. A tetchy evil overlord who won’t tell Brendon what he’s dressing up as. Apparently, it’s bad form to know before the time of costuming what Frank’s going to wear. It’s not like Brendon has any idea what he’s going to do. Frank’s probably in the same boat and doesn’t want to admit it.

Brendon rubs at his eyes with one hand and fumbles a sleepy text off with the other while glancing up at the bathroom mirror. There’s no sense in going back to sleep again. He has work. He’s going in early to help clean and set up for the night so he can leave at seven instead of ten. 

Sasha shows up at noon in a sailor outfit. Like old school World War II Navy gear, not some skimpy little blue and white striped skirt with matching tank combo, even though the uniform shirt is unbuttoned enough to show off her cleavage. Brendon’s in his normal work clothes and she frowns at him, so he rolls up his sleeves and says he’s a construction worker. With the plaid button-down that he’s wearing he _could_ pass as a particularly scrawny site gopher. 

He blames Frank for the introduction of more plaid and striped patterns into his wardrobe. That blame also stretches to include the sudden mass of t-shirts and hoodies that he’s collected over the past four months. His side of their shared closest has slowly but surely grown less and less sparse. He even has a second pair of Converse sitting in the closet not far from a pair of Frank’s.

Sasha shakes her head at him and calls him a lazy smartass. Brendon grins and goes back to wiping down glasses. The weight of the tumbler in his hand is comfortable. There’s a pro and con list scrolling by behind his eyes that highlights everything he could use the glass for and the limitations surrounding each.

It’s almost easy to get lost in the familiarity of the moment. However, there’s a difference just on the edges of his awareness that reminds him that he’s not sinking under the heavy waves of crushing darkness. He’s not bound by the violence anymore, even though it’s always going to be there, always going to be something he can tap into if he chooses.

It reminds him of the purely curious way he used to wonder how broken bones felt when he was little and his father would yell at him not to jump out of the tree in the backyard during his imaginary superhero games. A hint of the unknown mixed with the vague ideas of what he thought he _did_ know. 

Brendon snorts and sets the glass down so he can reach for another one. All it took was snapping his right arm in a clean break once to sate that wonder. His father was highly unhappy when the experience didn’t hinder Brendon from continuing to imagine himself saving the world because he was the best tree climber _ever_.

That’s apparently the story of his life. He never knows when to give up. Once he makes a decision, he sticks with it. When he was six, it was superheroes. After that, he wanted to be a space pirate.

Years later, and he still hasn’t changed. Only now, he’s come out the other side of dark times with a resolve to not give in to the temptation of what he’s known for years. Maybe Brendon’s been a bit harsh on himself over expecting to stumble off the normality wagon when he quit, retired, or whatever it is he should call the end of his pretty lucrative stint as a contract killer. 

Frank’s been a huge influence on his life. That’s not an understatement, but Frank’s not the only one who matters. Gabe’s never given up on him, the twins were willing to wait for him to wake up from his haze of hurt and self-isolation, and Shannon wasn’t about to drop someone who could understand his reasons for leaving whenever shit got too tough to handle for awhile. 

Stubbornness has gotten Brendon this far, and now he has a solid support system. It’s not just him against the whole damn world. Frank was right to call him out on being an asshole to his friends. 

It’s been a month of mending the bridges Brendon never wanted to build in the first place and he already can tell a difference. Things are still building, some supports weak in areas, but what he has now is lightyears beyond what he was reduced to when he was fifteen.

He’ll never get to be a space pirate, but that’s okay. Somehow, he thinks he can deal with being a bartender at Gabe’s club and having a boyfriend who’s wasted as an office jockey at an accounting firm. 

Plus, there’s always the slim chance he could talk Gerard into drawing a mini comic about pirates living in space. 

Marcy clocks in at three. She’s wearing a shimmery pink and black puff-like tutu dress that looks like it’s been attacked by razors, lighters, and maybe a blow torch for good measure. When he asks her what her costume is, she smiles happily at him and spins once in her pink heels while telling him. Apparently, she’s some weird goth version of Glinda the Witch of the North, and her fiance is a punk version of the Scarecrow. Her cell phone has pictures she shows Brendon before she bounds off to wait on customers.

At lunch - his very late lunch break - he sends three obnoxious texts to Frank that eat up the hundred and sixty character limit easily just to say _Happy Birthday_ again. Gabe finds him in the staff break room while he’s repeatedly pressing down on the _!_ key in reply to Frank’s first return text of **asshole**.

“Still as classy as ever, I see. Let me guess, niño, you’re a bartender?”

Brendon hits send and looks up from his phone’s wallpaper of him and Frank poking each other. Gabe’s not dressed up either. Well, there’s a pair of felt cat ears sitting on top of his head, but that joke’s been played out for years, so it’s not as humorous as it used to be. 

“Marcy says I could be a junior lumberjack.”

Gabe laughs at that and shakes his head.

“Next year, kiddo, we’ll buy all of the gauze rolls off the shelves at Wal-Mart and you can be an Egyptian prince with stylistic placement of drooping wrappings.” 

Brendon pulls a snack cracker from the pack he wrestled from the snack machine, damn thing wanted to fight with him over it, and twists the crackers apart to get at the peanut butter goodness of the center. He offers the cracker side with the least amount of spread to Gabe.

“You just want a reason to con Vicky-T into being Hatshepsut a second time so you can wear the cat ears and say you’re cat advisor to a great and powerful pharaoh.”

His cracker isn’t as good as slathering Jiff on saltines at home is, but it’s better than not eating anything. Gabe drops to sit next to him and he barely winces at all as he settles. Brendon offers him the next cracker sandwich in the pack. 

Gabe’s not wearing a sling. He’s mostly healed while still being sore as hell. His _vacation_ time ends tomorrow, officially. Unofficially, Brendon doesn’t think it ever really went into effect, considering how often Gabe kept showing up.

The guy who adopted him is just as stubborn as Brendon is. Go figure.

“It seems my nefarious plot has been exposed. I must now devise a new one before you meddling kids can destroy all my hard-won scheming.”

Brendon laughs about the same time his phone joins in with an Aqua song. Seriously, he’s going to delete all of Frank’s ringtones and replace them with _Care Bear_ spoken-word quotes. Trust his smart-ass boyfriend to change not only the text rings and the alarm rings, but also the individual contact rings. There’s no telling who’s calling now, except it’s not rocket science making an educated guess.

Gabe munches on his cracker and smirks at Brendon when Brendon answers his phone with a clipped “you’re not actually an evil overlord, asshole. Stop acting like one.” His laughter is present in his voice instead of the anger he’s trying to project. It ruins the effect spectacularly. 

Frank just snickers at him.

“I love you toooooo. I was wondering if you want cake now or to wait. The office gifted me with a massive sheet of the stuff.They only attacked about a third of it. We’ll be on a sugar high the rest of the week.” 

Brendon can only imagine the mischief they’ll get into if they’re hopped up on sugar all week. Not to mention all the situps he’ll have to do to burn the excess calories away.

“You mean if Mikey and Gerard don’t sneak away with most of it when they come over later. It’s your birthday, there’s no reason to drop by when you could go home and do nothing for a few hours. It’s five. I’ll be home in about two hours.”

He ends the call singing a butchered version of “Happy Birthday” as sung by a Fraggle. Gabe’s laughing just as hard as Frank is when Brendon hangs up.

“Damn, it’s bueno as fuck seeing you this happy, kiddo.”

Brendon smiles and shrugs. He doesn’t know what to say. There’s no way to explain the things floating around in his head. He still doesn’t feel completely worth the happiness he’s found, but he’s tired of actively pushing the positivity away. 

“I shouldn’t be. Everything is going to shit around us.”

Gabe shakes his head and frowns.

“That’s not your battle. Things will settle themselves soon enough.”

Brendon stands and throws his empty wrapper away.

“After someone else not involved gets hurt or murdered. Greta thinks we should do something, but there’s nothing.”

It’s the truth. Short of picking sides and going to war for a cause none of them believe in, they have no sway. Being neutral keeps them safe-ish, but does shit else. The twins have talked about it, all of them have between texts, phone calls, and brief snatches of concerned conversation when they see each other. 

There’s nothing to do but wait.

“Some events have no ways to control them. Don’t think about it, just enjoy the good things. Life’s too fucking short, niño. It’s _too_ fucking short.”

Gabe ruffles Brendon’s shorted hair and leaves the break room. Brendon rolls his shoulders just to feel the muscles pull under his shirt. Not thinking about the shit happening in the background around them is easier said than done. There’s this little ball of gloom that’s sitting in his chest telling him something bad is coming. 

He just doesn’t know _what_ that something could be. He’s almost lost Gabe once already and barely survived that without tipping completely into the ink of forever-staining darkness. Everyone has their breaking point, and Brendon’s afraid to see what might happen if he completely shatters instead of fraying like he did when he was younger, spider-webbed cracks that slipped into every portion of his fractured life. 

Shawn takes over at the bar around six. He’s wearing a suit and tries to charm Sasha by pretending to be a dashing spy. Sasha laughs at him. Brendon snickers to himself and goes to help Marcy with orders. The booths are slowly starting to fill up and the night shift girls should be getting ready for their first round of sets soon.

Not even thirty minutes later, a fight breaks out between a bickering couple when one of the guys mock-flirts with Marcy. Brendon’s close enough to grab Marcy before the jealous boyfriend can get his hands on her. She stumbles in her heels for a second before sprinting off in search of Dillon or Nathan.

Brendon’s good at being menacing if he needs to be, but he’s not exactly Mister Universe. Not that he has trouble bringing the boyfriend down when the guy tries to punch him. Basic dodging skills have always come naturally. He should probably thank the bullies in fourth grade who liked to pick on him during Couch Lewis’ augmented version of dodgeball for that particular skill set.

Nathan walks up while the guy’s squirming under Brendon’s hold on him. The floor isn’t exactly a Serta mattress and it’s sure as fuck not as clean. Nathan smirks at him before bending down to grab the guy from him. The guy’s boyfriend apologizes softly and drops two twenties on the tabletop before following Nathan to the exit.

Marcy hugs Brendon and Cathy motions for him to go clock out. Brendon smells like booze from where the asshole cowboy threw his drink at him. There’s no sense in changing into the spare set of clothes he keeps in his locker. It’s already almost seven anyways, and it’s not like he’s leaving hours early. If anything, he’ll be missing fifteen minutes on today’s timesheet; he can always pick up whatever he’ll miss by leaving early tonight on Thursday, seeing as he’s off tomorrow.

Avery salutes Brendon when he passes him in the parking lot. Apparently, pretending to be military is big this year. Brendon doesn’t understand it, but whatever. Avery might need the extra courage, Halloween is always a spectacle at the Moxie. Dillon and Nathan will have a list of booted people and the costumes they were in so they can gossip like old hens about who had the weirdest shift come tomorrow. 

The tv is playing a cartoon special when Brendon gets home. Frank wanders out of the kitchen and stops when he sees Brendon unlacing his shoes.

“You’re home early. I bet it’s fun being the boss’ son.”

Frank grins at him, and Brendon kicks off his shoes before flipping Frank off.

“A customer thought I needed a Bloody Mary bath. Cathy decided it was better to send me home instead of having me change and get out on the floor again.”

If it wasn’t for the plaid, the tomato juice would be more present on his shirt. It’s still ruined, another sacrifice to the pile of house clothes that aren’t allowed out anymore. The living room isn’t chilly. Brendon starts to unbutton his shirt after his hoodie is hung on its usual hook - his keys and cell phone left in the pockets so he doesn’t forget them later. Soon he’ll have to switch to a heavier form of outer wear, but for now, his hoodie is thick enough to keep the fall chill out. 

Frank whistles as he strips. The moment his shirt slips off his shoulders, he’s pushed up against the wall. 

“Not the right amount of finesse for a guy who works at a strip joint, but points for trying.”

Brendon tries not to laugh. He’s suddenly reminded of that night in March, and Frank’s words from then echo in his head. 

They’ve come a _long_ way since that night. 

“You’ve never complained before, maybe I should stop?”

Frank pinches his side and rocks forward enough to press him into the wall somewhat harder.

“Not complaining, just stating an observation.”

Brendon chuckles and circles Frank’s wrist with his fingers.

“Yeah, just an observation, my ass. How does it feel to be an old man? It is your birthday and I’m _just_ observing that aging is involved.”

He snickers around his words and Frank drags him down into a heated kiss, effectively cutting off his mirth. Brendon should really pull away and shower, but doing so is less fun. Frank’s already showered for a second time today; his skin smells clean and he tastes more like traces of soap than sweat when Brendon switches their positions so he can lick the ink that stretches across Frank’s shoulder. 

Frank tugs him away from his exploration and kisses his jaw before dropping lower to nip at his neck. 

“Vodka musk. Absolut should market the scent.”

The words are moist against his skin and Brendon tries not to huff. He knows he needs to wash but fuck it, he’s turned on now.

“You’re the one who started this.”

Frank nods.

“I did, but you need a shower first. I’ll heat up leftovers then we can pick up where we left off.”

It’s a sound plan. That doesn’t mean Brendon has to like it. In retaliation, he jerks off in the shower before taking eight minutes to scrub the alcohol from his skin and quickly shampoo and condition his hair. 

Drying off doesn’t take long, and he changes into boxers and a pair of loose jeans before running a damp hand through his wet hair. They have a blow dryer hiding somewhere. Fuck if he knows where it is right now because it’s not in the place he put it last time he used it. 

Towel-dried it is then. 

The kitchen is warm and bright when he pops in to check on Frank. There’s a fucking huge-ass white rectangular box sitting on the counter. Fuck, Frank wasn’t kidding about work gifting him with a giant ass cake.

“Were they trying to put you in a sugar coma? Christ, that’s one massive box. How the hell did you carry it in? it’s bigger than you.”

Frank glares at him before shoving a bowl of warmed pasta into his hands; the fork jabbed in the center wobbles slightly.

“Ha fucking ha, jackass. Considering I’m off until Friday and then again over the weekend, it’s a possibility. Food now, you can be a dick after.”

A day later, Brendon’s pasta isn’t as tasty as it was the night before, but it’s not inedible, so there’s that. He’s rinsing out their bowls while Frank leans against him when the lock rattles in the front door.

The Ways are never early. However, besides Frank and himself, they’re the only other people who have a key. Well, more like they borrow Ray’s key because Ray is less likely to lose the thing than they are. 

Brendon stretches to grab for a dry dish towel as the front door opens and closes in the other room. 

“We heard someone was having a birthday on this ghoulish day of witching and mischief. But maybe we were wrong, Mikes. I guess we’ll just have to pack up our gifts and go home disinhearted.”

Frank sighs over being interrupted and straightens before walking towards the living room when Gerard says something about presents. Brendon finishes drying their bowls, setting them in the cabinet afterwards.

“Whoa, hello nakedness. Put on a shirt. Here, we bought you one. Jesus, Frankie, you’re going to catch a cold this way.” 

Gerard’s voice is loud and dramatic. Brendon tries to hold his laughter in as he slips into the living room to watch Frank tug on a brand new t-shirt that’s got the name of some band Brendon’s never heard of splashed across the front in bloody-red font. 

Gerard smiles and waves when he notices him. 

Mikey looks like he’s trying to not laugh as well. Brendon’s slightly impressed that he can tell that. The guy’s not exactly Mister Overt Expressions like his brother is.

Since the end of last month, Mikey’s been less cold when he’s around. Like Bob, there’s probably never going to be any love lost between the two of them. However, it’s good to have found some form of solid ground. Brendon doesn’t have to worry about Mikey trying to dig for dirt anymore.

Hopefully.

“Gee, want to say that louder? I think they couldn’t hear you in Australia.”

Gerard glares at Mikey, and Brendon can’t hold his laughter in a second longer. Gerard looks like a kindergartner unhappy with the crayon color he’s been given for art time. His dark hair coupled with the heavy coat obscures at least half of his costume from view in ways that make him look more like a sullen four year old rather than a guy well in his thirties; a guy, who’s possibly pretending to be a Victorian age detective or some weird random person from the mid to late eighteen hundreds.

Brendon wants to ask if Gerard is Sherlock Holmes but if he does that now, he’ll only interrupt the Way brother sibling glarefest that’s happening right in front of him. It’s not like he can’t ask later. 

There’s plenty of time left in the night for random observations about costumes to be made.

“You remember the last time he got bad sick, Mikey.”

Mikey nods slightly and Brendon stops laughing. He wasn’t around then, but he’s heard the stories. Frank had the death flu for over two weeks and scared the shit out of Gerard. 

“That was four years ago, Negative Nancy. I’m healthy and standing right here. Please tell me you brought the shit I asked for, Gee?”

Gerard kicks at the black backpack sitting at his feet. 

“Like I’d fucking forget asshole, you’ve been reminding me almost constantly since Friday.” 

That doesn’t sound surprising, and explains a few of the extra, random texts Frank’s been sending lately. 

Gerard picks up his backpack, and Frank drags him towards the master bedroom. Brendon watches with amusement as Gerard bickers with Frank over something he can’t hear right before they move out of sight. Brendon shakes his head and smiles to himself before noticing that Mikey’s watching him.

“You’re lucky I talked Gee out of his grand, master plans for you. He had character sketches half-drawn out before I stepped in.”

Yeah, Brendon can imagine that. Gerard’s artistic by nature and it’s not like Brendon didn’t bring it on himself by instigating the whole damn thing on Saturday.

“How bad was it?”

The tv remote is sitting on the arm of the sofa. He snags it and cuts the tv off. It was on mute but it’s not like anyone was watching the show playing.

“You don’t really want to know.” 

He probably doesn’t.

“Okay, so I’ve been traded to team Mikey Way. What magic should I expect?”

Mikey scoffs about the whole traded thing, and possibly the crack about magic. Brendon smiles and tries to seem as unthreatening as possible. He’s not a dumbass, he knows this is an olive branch, of sorts. Mikey could have left his brother to his own devices and stepped in with amassing whatever supplies Frank asked for. 

He didn’t have to do this. 

Brendon should, maybe, be worried. Mikey’s not on team Brendon Hearts Frank, but whatever. He can always say no if the costume is excessive or weird as fuck.

Mikey drops his messenger bag from his shoulder and pulls out a white plastic bag.

“Here”

Mikey tosses the bag at Brendon. His catch isn’t sloppy, but the bag’s oddly-shaped and shifts in his hold as it tries to settle against his chest, the bag almost slipping out of his hands in the process. A shoe prods at his ribs from somewhere. It makes Brendon wonder what Mikey decided he should wear tonight.

“Take your time. We have a good hour before Gee lets Frank out from behind closed doors. Don’t mess with your hair.”

Mikey pulls out his cell phone and starts texting the moment he’s finished talking. Brendon shuffles to the guest bedroom with his gear in it, setting the white plastic bag on the edge of the bed after he closes the door. His gaze wanders off to where his gun lives. He shouldn’t need it, hopefully. 

Frank doesn’t want him toting it around, so he’s not going to grab it, no matter how badly he wants to. It’s Halloween and they’re going to be around a hell of a lot of people. That ups the probability of bad shit happening by at least thirty-five percent from the average forty that’s been common the past month or two. 

Seventy-five percent chances aren’t very good odds.

However, Brendon shouldn’t arm himself with a gun when they’re going to be in the middle of a drunken crowd. It’s not like he doesn’t have an impressive collection of sharp, deadly, pointy weapons, so that just means his knives will be coming out to play again. 

He should be fine.

When he tugs on the loopy knot tying the bag up, one of the shoes flops out. It’s a battered looking black Kedd in his size. The white laces are fraying in spots but not completely out of commission. 

He pulls everything out and stops to ponder exactly what Mikey was thinking when he stares at the collection of black and white clothing spread out across the end of the bed. Brendon was prepared for a bit more color than this. There’s a white short-sleeved shirt, the Kedds, a pair of white socks, black pants, and a black and white stripped hoodie with a blue music note stitched into the fabric near the chest.

Seriously, he has no _damn_ clue what the clothes combine to create. Brendon’s never been big on fashion, but does know this isn’t goth or anything else he’d actually paid attention to when he was in school. Whatever, at least the costume seems easy and thrift store cheap. 

Brendon’s not looking at something complex as fuck or obscure in very cult nerd ways.

The pants aren’t as loose as the ones he was wearing. However, they’re not tight as fuck, which means he can explain away another third of Frank’s texts. Because if Mikey knows his clothing sizes without asking, then there’s a _hell_ of a lot of shit to start worrying about.

Where the pants seem comfortably sized, the white shirt clings to his shoulders and chest like it’s trying to be a second skin. It’s thin and if he stays in the hoodie, he’ll sweat right through it in moments. At least, Mikey was smart enough to not give him a heavy tee plus hoodie combo.

When Brendon’s finished dressing, he folds his jeans and leaves them on the comforter, next to the Kedds. Little smudged music notes dance across the dirty white rubber of the shoes, on the outer sides. On the inner sides, there are two quotes. _‘A person's a person, no matter how small.’-D. S._ is scrawled on the left shoe, while _‘I meant what i said and i said what i meant.’-D. S._ is inked on the right. 

Brendon sits on the corner of the bed, and stares at the black handwritten quotes. He didn’t really pay much attention to the rubber sides of the soles when he pulled the Kedds out of the bag. He should have, though, because, suddenly, it’s not hard figuring out what his costume is.

JoJo from _Horton Hears a Who_. 

The music note and the ink are glaringly obvious alterations meant as hints. Gerard’s way of being involved regardless of what Mikey was going for in the simplicity department. Brendon closes his eyes for a moment. 

His favorite books, when he was five, were the Horton ones. His father would read them to him right before bedtime, a more solemn Horton exclaiming _‘An elephant's faithful one-hundred percent!’_ than the animated movie would eventually highlight. Of course, Mikey and Gerard noticed how involved he was when they group watched the damn thing on Stars after no one could decide on a flick and Frank got tired enough to just snatch the remote out of Mikey’s hand to channel surf until he got to the first thing playing.

For a fleeting second, it’s hard embracing the memory for what it is. Just a memory of his father that’s faded and barely there anymore. Brendon smiles to himself, opens his eyes, and picks up the left shoe. The word _‘Yop’_ is written across the bottom in sharpie. It’s the same with the right. There’s some weird Way version of symbolism buried in the depths of why Gerard penned the notes on the outside, the quotes on the inside, and Yop under everything else, but fuck if Brendon can figure it out.

Once the Kedds are laced, and he’s slipped a pocket knife in his hoodie pocket and another in his left shoe, he stands and walks back into the living room. Mikey’s typing a text out. There’s no telling how many he’s sent off and received since Brendon left to change. 

He slides off the the sofa arm, and pockets his phone when he notices he’s no longer alone in the room. 

“Now for finishing touches.”

Brendon runs a hand through his hair and follows Mikey to the bathroom.

“You don’t have permission to dye my hair black, just so you know.”

“Like I have time for that. Ebony hair would only turn you into genderbent Snow White and Frank would bitch. So no. This peace treaty does not need that.”

Mikey’s messenger bag has migrated to the bathroom counter and Brendon stares in the mirror, taking the time to notice that Mikey’s touched up his own costume in small ways. How Brendon knows that is beyond him. It’s not like he’s able to guess who, or what, Mikey is without being told. 

The white stripe of hair paint that’s been combed into the tangled-up strands on the left side of his head should be a dead give away. There’s a movie reference lurking about somewhere in that tiny little detail. Brendon wants to say he’s missing a Tim Burton movie about a guy in grungy period piece clothing who isn’t from _Sleepy Hollow_ , but the thought keeps dropping from his grasp.

Brendon’s trying not to be a raging tool. That doesn't mean his voice listens to his mental thoughts of _don’t be a jackass, he’s trying_ when he opens his mouth to ask why Mikey’s clothing is in the same time period as his brother’s, yet looks completely different in style and context. Instead of saying anything costume related, he comments on Mikey’s mention of a peace treaty.

“Is that what this is? I don’t think the Treaty of Versailles was signed in a bathroom.”

Mikey pulls out a black cloth bag and unzips it.

“Looks like you’re not going anywhere. Neither am I, and trench warfare is a bitch, so yeah, truce for now.”

Brendon nods at his reflection and lets Mikey attack his hair with a comb and hair product. He declines the offer of eyeliner. They might be on firmer ground than they were before tonight, but there’s no way in hell he’s letting Mikey near his eyes with a sharpened pencil-like object. 

Pens, pencils, and their makeup counterparts can be deadly in ways most people never think about. So, yeah, not going to happen. Mikey just shrugs one shoulder, the action pulling at the cloth of his white shirt sleeve.

“Your loss. Frankie’s a sucker for guyliner.”

Mikey finishes tugging Brendon’s hair into his eyes as much as his new cut will allow and adds more product. When he’s finished, Brendon looks at himself again. He seems different, not himself, while still being just that. It’s eerie as fuck because the last time that happened he was on a job and had to pretend to be a tech specialist for some computer company. 

And that right there might be why he hasn’t dressed up for Halloween in years. There’s no reason to dress up as someone else one night out of the year when it’s been part of his job for _years_.

Ex-job. Brendon’s not going back. Fuck, if he could enjoy Halloween when he was little, he can do the same as an adult without getting wishy-washy. He looks down at his feet to stare at where the quotes slink across the rubber to remind himself of positive things. 

“I’d like to keep the shoes, what do I owe you?” 

Mikey looks mildly surprised to be asked when Brendon hazards a glance upwards.

“Don’t fuck this up, and you can have the whole outfit for free.”

It’s not like Brendon expected Mikey to be different from Bob, but at least he never outwardly demanded he leave Frank the fuck alone like Bob did. Dark stares, biting comments, and pointed questions will never equal that experience.

“That’s what I’m trying to do.”

He doesn’t owe Mikey anything. That doesn’t mean he shouldn’t tell the truth. 

“So who are you anyways?”

Mikey stares at him like he’s suddenly grown two extra arms. He packs up his supplies silently before leaving the bathroom with Brendon still staring at his own reflection and the weird transformation that’s taken place in front of him.

There’s a knock on the master bedroom door and Brendon hears Mikey’s voice almost break into unhappy emotion when he calls Frank an uncultured member of mainstream society.

“You haven’t shown him _Sweeney Todd_? That’s like sacrilegious, Frankie.”

Brendon slips out of the bathroom in time to see Gerard open the bedroom door with a shocked expression on his face. The moment he notices Brendon down the hall, he flails his hands about like ribbons caught in the breeze of an oscillating fan. 

“How can you have not seen the Demon Barber of Fleet Street? If we didn’t already have plans for Frank’s birthday party, we’d be watching that instead.”

Gerard’s vest is in disarray and his hair is unkempt. He looks slightly unhinged and passionate. Yeah, there’s no way he’s not Sherlock Holmes. When Brendon doesn’t say anything, Gerard turns back to the bedroom door and yells at Frank.

“Please don’t tell me you’ve given up bloody movies of death and dismemberment, Frank. That would suck ass and also render your presents useless.” 

Brendon tries not to frown. He hadn’t realize he was changing Frank’s movie watching patterns that badly, but apparently he has. It’s not hard to remember _Sweeney Todd_ now. Brendon lasted through the third bloody death by straight razor before he started thinking about the pearl handled straight edge he has in one of his duffels. 

It’s sharp as fuck. 

Of course it is. Why carry a dull blade or razor for anything short of long-term torment? Brendon’s not an enforcer, he doesn’t do torture. Or, more like, he never _was_ and doesn’t ever plan on travelling down that path.

Frank steps out of the master bedroom in denim and leather. It’s possible he’s supposed to be Mad Max or some other distopic anti-hero, but Brendon can only think stupidly that he looks like a short, brunette version of Billy Idol with his spiked hair and leather jacket. 

His boyfriend is fucking hot. Well, he always is. But, fuck, if this is going to be the norm for Halloween costumes then, Brendon’s totally for dressing up every year.

“Very concise words Holmes, we never finished the movie in favor of messy sex.”

Gerard scrunches up his face and doesn’t reply. Brendon’s glad, because Frank’s lying through his teeth. That night, they talked about how long it takes for a person to bleed out from a slit throat and no one slept well after that. Brendon wishes there had been sex instead. It would have been a pleasant distraction.

“Fuck, you look hot.”

Suddenly, Frank’s in his space. There’s thin traces of worry lurking in the corners of his eyes. His words mask the emotion well. Brendon wants to push him against the hall wall and drop to his knees. However, they’re not alone, and Mikey and Gerard are not an ideal audience. 

“I look like a cartoon character. You however...”

“Are a shortass Billy Idol. Really, Frank. I thought you learned after last time not to pick distopic characters.”

Mikey smirks, and Frank flips him off.

“Says the scarecrow version of a Victorian serial killer.”

Brendon snickers and pulls Frank into a kiss despite the fact that Gerard and Mikey are right fucking there. When he pulls away, he grins at Frank.

“I was going to say really fucking sexy. You sure you want to go to the bar? We could stay home-”

“Fucking hell, you two can roleplay later. Everyone’s dressed so we can leave now.”

Mikey crosses his arms and Gerard makes an agreeing noise. Frank smiles and says something smartass about seeing old friends and getting new bruises for his birthday before heading towards the living room. Brendon grabs his cell phone and keys out of the pocket of the hoodie hanging next to the door before locking up behind everyone else.

Gerard goes to his car and Mikey makes a beeline for the passenger side door. That means Brendon and Frank get the backseat to themselves. There’s no sense in taking two cars when Gerard’s designated driver tonight. 

Not to mention they’re staying the night anyways. Mikey left his messenger bag on the sofa and Lord knows where Gerard’s backpack hid itself.

It’s not until they’re at a stoplight that Brendon realizes he doesn’t have his wallet on him. Fuck. He left it in the master bedroom when he was picking jeans and boxers for after his shower. There’s no way he’s _not_ going to get carded. 

Frank notices that he’s looking for something, and pulls Brendon’s wallet from a random jacket pocket.

“I think you forgot something. Would be a shame not spending my birthday plastered to my boyfriend’s side during a mosh pit moment.”

Brendon snatches his wallet and wiggles until he’s able to shove it in the back pocket of his black jeans.

“Asshole. You just want to grope me in public.”

Frank nods happily. His right hand creeps up Brendon’s left thigh.

“I will throw a bottle of flat Pepsi on you two if you act like hormonal teenagers back there. I don’t care if I’m driving. Mikey can hold the wheel if he has to.”

It’s not a threat, and only a promise because there’s enough bottles of random half-drank sodas rolling about. Brendon can hear them sliding and crashing into each other whenever Gerard takes a curve too fast. Promise or not, that doesn’t stop Brendon from leaning into Frank’s space to nip at his jawline. He chose the middle seat on purpose, the broken seat belt not mattering as long as he could stay close enough to touch his boyfriend.

Frank chuckles, and flexes the fingers of his right hand, five tiny points of pressure that Brendon registers almost instantly. Gerard says something the music eats while Mikey scoffs loud enough in reply to be heard over the guitars and drums. Brendon doesn’t really pay them that much attention, too busy being distracted by Frank’s mouth.

Mikey says something else, a warning about _something_ that Brendon disregards without even thinking about it. Drops of cold water flick against his cheek to trickle down his neck. Fuck, that’s cold even in the warmth of the backseat. Brendon shudders slightly and pulls away from an unhappy Frank.

“Asshole.”

Mikey lifts one shoulder as they pass by a streetlight that casts enough illumination to highlight his motion in the gloom.

“Neither of you are green. You’ll be fine.”

There’s some reference there. Brendon’s almost positive it’s not anything to deal with Kermit the Frog, so he’s slightly lost, but whatever. He doesn’t have to know everything.

“Well, at least it wasn’t cola.”

Brendon smiles at Frank lopsidedly and uses his left hand to move Frank’s right hand off of his thigh so they can hold hands. They don’t exactly do this much for some weird reason. Most of the time, one of them will circle fingers around the other’s wrist or any other touch that could translate to that, instead of clasping hands. 

Frank flexes his fingers again and Brendon answers by returning the pressure.

“You’re still an asshole Mikes. It’s _my_ birthday. I’m fucking sure PDAs are allowed tonight.”

Gerard turns into a parking lot that’s about a twelve minute walk away from the bar and finds a spot right under a functioning lot light. The lot is half-empty, but Brendon wagers that it’ll be full before ten. Holidays are prime days for drunken reverie and there’s bound to be more vans and sedans populating the area by the end of the night; smart people making sure to ride with friends and a sober driver.

Ray’s waiting for them outside of the bar. He’s wearing a top hat and his curly hair is teased out. A pair of dark sunglasses hangs from the collar of his shirt. Gerard shakes his head and frowns at him before starting in on a rant about obvious costume choices. Frank laughs at Brendon’s side while Mikey smirks.

“He never learns that Ray does this shit on purpose. Gee’s fucking easy to play.”

By the happy way Ray’s handling Gerard’s rant, Brendon can see what Mikey means. Maybe he should do that next year. Grunge is super fucking easy to pull off and it’s not like he doesn’t have enough plaid and layers to be legit. This way he won’t infringe on Ray’s apparent corner on the eighties rock scene.

As predicted, he gets carded when they go downstairs, but then so does Frank. Even though, the guy at the door does it on purpose to piss him off. They don’t pay a cover charge because, apparently, they’re on some list. Frank’s almost instantly swept away from him by a group of five guys in horror film garb. 

Music pumps through the bar, and there’s already a crowd on the floor crashing into each other while the opening band performs something thrashy.

“This happens whenever the guys are in town. Give it twenty minutes and Frank will find a way back to you so introductions can be made.”

Ray smiles around his words and Brendon follows him to the bar. He doesn’t plan to drink much, especially not over-priced house whiskey. He knows how awful that swill is and just _no thank you_. 

If he wants hard liquor, it’s going to be the good shit. 

The first band files off the stage after working the crowd into a frenzy and the speaker system starts to pump classic rock while the second act gets ready. Benji and Joel slide up to him a few minutes after Ray walks off to go check on Gerard and Mikey. Brendon laughs. He fucking should have expected them to show up. They’re notorious for their love of Halloween gigs at places like the Barrel’s Bottom. 

They’ve been trying to talk him into going with them for _years_.

“We’re going to mingle but you looked like a lonely little emo Wholing.”

Brendon flips Joel off and his orange wristband clashes into the black cuff of his hoodie creating a bold statement in contrasts that Gerard would freak over. It’s hot as fuck down here and he’s already starting to sweat. Brendon bounces on the balls of his feet and _wants_ to uncoil some of his bound-up energy.

“Says the sadly unconjoined zombie twins missing their other half. Did you manage to drag Shannon with you this time?”

The only person as bad as Brendon is about avoiding the twins when they go out on Halloween, is Shannon. He’s never really explained why, but there’s some complex reason he doesn’t enjoy the holiday. If Brendon was around and not working, the two of them would blow off the twins and go get wasted before trawling the streets picking fights with local hoods who thought they had a chance starting gangs in a city already populated by two organized crime families with territoriality issues.

The violence and blood never seemed to calm either of them down, but it was something solid they could latch onto. In a twisted way, it was fun besting people who didn’t have a fucking clue what they were doing. 

“He’s around somewhere, Brenny, just don’t expect him to be Linus waiting up for the Great Pumpkin.”

Brendon nods and opens his mouth to speak only to get distracted when Frank appears in front of him. Seriously, his boyfriend is fucking distracting in leather. Benji laughs and the twins wish Frank a _‘happy birthday. little-bit’_ before running off.

“Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum make interesting zombies. Sorry about vanishing. The guys didn’t realize I was involved. We don’t really talk often.”

 _‘It’s a long story’_ hangs in the smoky air over their heads. Brendon can understand that. He bends to kiss Frank, just because he can, and when they pull apart, Frank stares at him with this thoughtful look on his face.

“Come on, I’ll introduce you to them.”

Which turns into Brendon shaking hands with people whose names he’s already forgotten while the second band starts in on their set. Conversation is hard to hear, and he ends up nodding half the time in reply to shit he doesn’t even understand. After about ten minutes, Frank’s friends wander off to prepare for their own set and Brendon lets his boyfriend drag him into the press of people.

The second band is more punk and ska than the raging screamo of the first. It’s interesting to say the least. They push and shove with the mass around them until they find a spot they like, then Frank plasters himself to Brendon’s side and they ride out the rest of the set in waves of intensity and flashes of brightness.

When the last song finishes, Frank tugs him out of the mire of people still crashing about. Brendon’s covered in sweat, and the moment they have space, he strips out of his hoodie, tying it around his waist to hopefully dry some before they have to walk in the cold October night to get back to the car.

It’s an unusual thing, temperature and weather. He’d swear, for years, the elements barely bothered him. Sure, he could tell when it was so damn cold or hot that he needed to plan his outfits or job set-ups accordingly, but most of the time, shit like that rarely registered beyond the extremely obvious. Now however, it’s like Brendon notices even the smallest dip in outside temperature or change in precipitation. 

Frank sheds his leather jacket and throws it at Ray when he shows up with Mikey and Gerard in tow. The Ways seem to be having fun, though they’re both still buttoned up. Fuck, Brendon would boil to death wearing that much fabric.

They spend the time between sets talking loud enough to be heard over the music and chatter happening all around them. No one has a drink and he can’t decide if it’s because they want to be cheap, or because Gerard’s not going to be touching anything alcoholic. Brendon guesses it doesn’t really matter in the long run. 

They’re here to have fun, not get plastered. 

If he wanted to do that, he would have stayed home with a bottle of Jim and, maybe, a bottle of Wild Turkey as a chaser. The shit’s vile, but packs a punch. If anything, his liver will thank him for bingeing less and less lately.

Frank’s friends take the stage and immediately start up a punk metal rendition of “Happy Birthday”. Frank’s grin is wide when he screams _assholes_ in the direction of the stage. Brendon notices Shannon standing near the twins. He’s not wearing a costume but he’s trying to enjoy himself. 

It’s a good thing to see.

What isn’t are the three guys Brendon barely spots around the edges of the crowd. Sometimes it sucks that he’s not Gabe’s height. It means he has trouble visually following the men. If he’s not mistaken, they were at Pete’s wedding as guests, not security and they sure as fuck weren’t part of the reception violence. 

There’s no way to know if they’re Pete’s people or somehow affiliated with his wife. It doesn’t matter. They’re dangerous either way.

Frank gets called up to play a song with the band and Brendon squeezes his hand before letting go, so his boyfriend can go be a rockstar, even if it’s only for a one song tonight. In that minute, he completely loses the three guys. He doesn’t know why they’re lurking about and that worries him.

Brendon’s suddenly hyper aware of everything, and everyone, around him because there’s not even a slim fucking chance that this is a coincidence. This isn’t some off-duty partying, this is a job. 

Ray and Mikey peel away from their little group of four and he watches them settle at the bar. Gerard seems content with where he’s standing and Frank’s safe on stage. Brendon’s cell phone buzzes in his pocket. He fishes it out while Gerard turns to frown at the fact that they’re being interrupted.

There’s a text from Shannon.

**gng out t smk. Wnt 1?**

Brendon looks up from the screen and twists his attention to the stairs but doesn’t catch Shannon leaving. The twins would have told him that Brendon was here with his boyfriend. It makes sense that Shannon would text him if he was worried something bad was about to happen. 

People move around, and he barely catches one of the three guys heading towards the exit. Brendon finds Gabe in his contacts folder by memory alone. He’s hoping he’s just being paranoid. However, why else would someone follow Shannon outside?

Gerard doesn’t look happy when Brendon goes to move.

“Gabe called.”

It’s fucking loud as shit around them, but Gerard seems to hear enough to nod without asking questions. Gabe may as well be Brendon’s father for how the guys act when he’s brought up in conversation, which is actually somewhat weird because in more ways he’s Brendon’s best friend, who just happened to adopt him years ago. 

After the twelfth, any mention of Gabe instantly gets concern.

Brendon’s lying, but the last thing he _needs_ is for Gerard to follow him out. That would only turn into a distraction he doesn’t think he could juggle if shit gets as bad as he hopes it won’t. 

 

That doesn’t stop it from being a shitty way to use Gerard’s sympathy. Brendon shoves the nasty voice in his head down as he makes his way to the stairs. He types a quick but legible text out as he sprints up the steps.

**call Elaine. Might need help**

There’s a million other things he could say, but he has no time. Gabe knows where he is and Elaine will pick up for him sooner than she will for Brendon. It’s not that Elaine doesn’t like him, it’s just that Gabe owns a business that’s been prone to touchy moments of violence. 

Also, he’s known her longer.

Calling 911 right now won’t do shit. Brendon needs cops who won’t be stupid prideful asshats with more prejudices than a crowd of skinheads. Luckily, Elaine knows people.

If Brendon had his number, he’d be calling Bob as well. Why Brendon thinks Bob would be helpful is beyond him, but whatever.

Cold air travels across his skin when he stumbles the moment his feet scrape across sidewalk. His hoodie’s damp against his arms when he tugs it on. It’s still better than just standing out in the cold in only a thin as fuck tee.

“Thought you might like a breather.”

Shannon’s leaning against the brick smoking. He pulls away from the wall when Brendon steps closer, offering him a cigarette in the process.

“Thanks, but I’m good.”

Brendon’s phone buzzes and he ignores it in favor of falling into step at Shannon’s side as they start to walk away from the bar.

“You saw them?”

He nods. 

“They wander off?”

Shannon mirrors Brendon’s previous action and they keep walking. If anything’s going to happen, it’s not going to be anywhere close enough to endanger the people they consider family.

“You think they know you pegged them?”

Shannon throws his cigarette into the darkness.

“Yeah.”

Which means this lull is on purpose. A warped sense of fake safety meant to throw them off guard. Only they’re not stupid enough to think that.

Brendon’s expecting it when one of the three guys appears in front of them. They’re being flanked by the second guy, who’s shifting until he’s in place behind them, effectively blocking any retreat they might try.

The guy in front of them has what looks like a length of metal pipe in one hand. He stops and points the end of the pipe at Brendon.

“We don’t have business with you.”

It’s a dismissal. Like fuck if Brendon’s going to heed it.

“You’re about to assault a neutral. I’m pretty _damn_ sure that’s my business. If Pete put you up to this, he’s lost his marbles.”

The guy behind them clears his throat. There’s the sound of a chain dragging across the ground that mingles with the cough. It’s meant to be terrifying, but all it does is give away details Brendon doesn’t have to turn to catalogue.

“A Leto is a Leto.”

Shannon laughs. He’s angry and unhappy. Brendon can fucking understand that. 

“Not true, but that doesn’t matter. Just shut up already.”

Brendon’s expecting the third guy when he lashes out with a knife to get Brendon out of the way. It doesn’t work the way the guy expected when Brendon ducks, and lunges forward to punch him in the stomach.

Two against three isn’t fair odds. That’s fine. It’s not like he and Shannon aren’t used to that. Sirens start to wail in the distance. Instead of spooking and fleeing, the three work themselves into a frenzy. 

It takes a _hell_ of a lot of coordination to steer the fight into an unpopulated parking lot, away from the other bars and clubs that scatter this side of the street. Brendon slips when his foot slides across a puddle of oil. It wouldn’t matter much, except he’s trying to dodge a swing from the metal pipe. 

His left arm involuntarily flings itself out from his side as he tries to keep his balance by running into the side of a parked car. The strike is at an odd angle, but that doesn’t make it any less painful when metal connects with flesh with enough force to knock him more solidly into the side of the vehicle.

Fuck.

Brendon sees spots paint across his vision, and barely has enough time to duck a second swing. Glass shatters behind him when the pipe connects with the side window of the sedan he slid into. Half of the lot lights aren’t on and it makes visibility hard as fuck in spots. Of course Brendon’s been separated from Shannon and the puddle of light he was fighting in, so he has to work with shadows and sound only.

It’s not anything Brendon can’t handle. 

Plus, the odds are a little better now, slightly tipping in their favor. They’re down to two against two. Knife guy is out cold, slumped against the fence that wraps around the edges of the lot.

A few splinters of glass fall into Brendon's hair when he tries to stand and only succeeds in leaning against the side of the sedan heavily. There’s the sound of metal clattering against asphalt a second before pipe guy lunges. Brendon drops to his knees and pays no attention to glass cutting into his jeans in favor of rolling out of the way.

When he stands, it’s hard because, motherfucker, his arm hurts. It’s got to be broken. He doesn’t have time to check to see if it’s a compound fracture or not, but guessing from the slip-slide of wetness trailing down his fingers, he’d say the pipe snapped bone with enough force to break skin.

“You should have walked away when you could.” Pipe guy growls at him. 

Maybe Brendon _should_ have left Shannon alone, but that was never an option. Not really. Brendon’s starting to wonder if this isn’t just a whole fucking set up. Starting with the wedding reception and ending with this. 

As a way to get Jared and Pete out of the way. 

Pit them against each other until they rip each other’s throat out because if Shannon’s murdered, Jared’s going to start torching shit for good. None of this tit-for-tat shit.

The problem is Brendon has no damn clue who’d want to do that. Pipe guy comes at him again and Brendon kicks him in the shin as hard as he can. They’re both ragged and beat up. Pipe guy has broken fingers, a busted nose and is favoring his right side.

Brendon’s watching his left because he’s weak there. His arm is throbbing and only stubbornness has kept him from dropping to his knees and retching from the bright sparks of pain that keep stabbing him. 

Other than that, he’s only bruised and cut-up. 

He laughs, the sound dying in his throat. Jesus fuck. He only has a broken arm. Nothing big, which he’d be able to believe more if the pain wasn’t so _damn_ all-encompassing. 

“Fucking little punk.”

Pipe guy tries to tackle him, and Brendon shifts, so he doesn’t go down when pipe guy falls to his right, scrambling for the knife in his shoe as he moves out of the way. It’s small and he’s been saving it just in case he needed it. His other knife is somewhere between the lot and the bar, along with his phone and wallet. He’s not exactly sure where he dropped it anymore. It’s possible he’s taken a few too many hits to the head, and everything is blurry.

The sirens are close and Brendon’s not even sure how much time has passed. He just doesn’t know. He snicks open his knife and watches as pipe guy staggers to his feet. Whatever started out as a way to send a message to Jared has become personal to pipe guy. He wants Brendon dead, because Brendon didn’t turn tail and run, because he’s actually able to hold his ground, and whatever other useless reasons the guy’s telling himself to justify homicide.

However, Brendon doesn’t plan on losing this fight. Giving up isn’t an option. Like fuck is he not seeing Frank again. It took him forever to find where he belongs, and finally wrestle with his many issues. 

He’s not letting pipe guy win.

There’s the sound of a car door shutting and it distracts him for half a second when it shouldn’t. Brendon’s going to pay for that. And yeah, he does. His knife slips from his fingers when he goes down. 

Pipe guy’s on top of him and slamming the back of his head against the cold asphalt. 

Instead of struggling, Brendon lets it happen. There’s the sound of yelling at the edges of the lot followed by heavy footfalls. He counts to seven in his head and waits for his skull to skip off the asphalt one last time before shoving his broken arm against pipe guy’s chest as hard as he can. 

It’s like chewing glass, the pain that explodes everywhere, but he holds on tight to consciousness, and uses the moment of surprise to punch pipe guy with his right fist. Crawling onto his knees is tortuous. Brendon’s not even sure if he’ll be able to stand, but if he doesn’t try then this is all over with.

There’s the click of a gun safety being released, and a gruff voice rumbles behind pipe guy.

“Police. Freeze.”

Brendon could swear he knows that voice. He doesn’t get a chance to find out, though, because he passes out when he tries to stand. 

Maybe Brendon dreams, maybe he doesn’t. He can’t tell. Sometimes there’s voices and words just beyond his grasp, other times, not so much. When he finally claws his way into coherent wakefulness, his whole body hurts. 

Fuck, just blinking feels like an Olympic event.

His left arm is heavy. He doesn’t have to glance to the side to realize it’s in a cast. Where else would he be but a hospital?

The tiny prick of pain in his right hand has to be the I.V.. Frank’s right hand is resting on his thigh, which explains the mystery pressure there, but does nothing to highlight the phantom touch against his left shoulder. Turning his head hurts like a bitch, that doesn’t stop him from moving. 

Gabe’s sitting on the left side of the hospital bed, he’s asleep just like Frank, the tips of his fingers settled on Brendon’s shoulder. 

“Before you ask, you’ve been in and out for nearly five days. The doctors had you in a drug-induced coma for twenty-four hours until the brain swelling went down. You’re fucking lucky they held off on the feeding tube”

Well, that explains the catheter, and the headache. Brendon blinks and watches as Nate comes around to sit at the foot of his bed.

“Do you remember what happened?” 

Thinking isn’t easy and fuck, Brendon shouldn’t nod, but he does, slowly. He remembers the bar and the people after Shannon. He curses under his breath and his voice cracks. His throat is dry as sandpaper. 

“Shannon-”

Moving to sit up is nearly impossible. Nate reaches out and wraps fingers around Brendon’s right ankle.

“Brendon, calm down. He’s fine. A few scratches and a lot of bruises, but that’s about it. Don’t move. I’ll go get a nurse, okay?”

With that, Nate uncurls his fingers and leaves the room.

“Brendon?”

Frank and Gabe speak at the same time. They both sound wrecked as fuck, and Brendon wants to reassure them that there’s no reason to stress, but he’s tired as fuck. 

“Sorry, I-”

Fingers card through his hair about the same time Frank climbs over the railing to curl up against his right side as gently as possible.

“Don’t do that again. I don’t care if you were playing hero. You leave me, and I’m dragging you back to me, forcefully, if I have to.”

Sometimes, Brendon forgets that he’s not the only one with abandonment issues.

“He’ll have help, niño.” Gabe’s touch is light. 

Brendon falls asleep without meaning to. 

When he wakes up for the second time, there’s a nurse checking on him. She smiles and runs out to get ice chips for his dry mouth. 

“I didn’t get to say thank you.”

Shannon’s sitting where Frank was earlier, before he plastered himself to Brendon’s side.

“Benji and Joel are outside. Ian’s making sure certain people actually sleep. Frank’s threatened all of us with bodily injury if we don’t call him when you wake up again. He’s scary, but he needs his rest. So you never woke up while I was here.”

Brendon snorts, and then winces. 

The nurse bustles in with his ice and asks him if he can move. When he wiggles his fingers at her, she smiles at him like he’s won a gold medal or something. It’s confusing. She hands Shannon the ice and tells them to press the call button if they need anything.

The first few slivers of ice aren’t enough. Brendon hates hospital procedures at this moment. He’d love to have a glass of water with his ice. 

“What happened after?”

If Brendon doesn’t focus on how thin his voice is maybe it won’t matter.

“Officer Bryar caught you when you dropped. Assholes One, Two, and Three are locked-up. They’re giving their boss up on a silver platter.”

Shannon stares at the darkened screen of the tv bolted to the wall in the far right corner of the room. Brendon swallows more melted ice before speaking again.

“It wasn’t Pete, was it?”

Shannon shakes his head.

“I don’t know who. The cops are staying quiet about that. It doesn’t matter. This won’t happen again. Saporta and I talked Wentz and Jared into a truce. None of this would have happened if they were a united front.”

Ain’t that the truth. 

Brendon doesn’t know if he believes that a truce will last long between those two, but it’s a good dream to have when he falls back into sleep.

Eventually, the catheter gets taken out and the doctors are confident that there’s no brain damage. Brendon’s just ready to leave the damn hospital. He’s never really alone, even after visiting hours because Gabe sweet-talked the nurses into letting them hang around as long as the don’t start shit.

The day before he gets released, he wakes up from a nap to find Gerard drawing to his right while Mikey types on his cell phone at Brendon’s left. The comic book shop isn’t open for the day yet, apparently, or Ray employs more people than Brendon knew. Both are highly plausible explanations, considering Ray owns his own business and can do whatever he fucking pleases.

Frank comes by after work every night. Gabe does the same thing, Nate following not far behind him. Brendon tries not to smile when he sees that because he doesn’t want to push things anymore than what Halloween already did. Nate moved into Brendon’s old room a few days ago for the time being, after asking Brendon if he was planning on moving back in with Gabe anytime soon. 

Maybe Ryland will end up being right after all.

“We brought coffee, but it’s cold now.”

Brendon shrugs, and shifts into a sitting position. Gerard makes this sad noise in the back of his throat when the cover scrunches enough to move his art supplies along with his sketchbook. Brendon snickers under his breath and glances down to see what Gerard’s been drawing.

Juliet’s staring at the glass storefront of a tattoo parlor. The name Inktastic Inkmentations is scrawled across the glass in thick lettering. Tony’s on the other side of the glass putting away various items at his workstation. 

Tony seems oblivious to Juliet. She’s standing right outside with a single suitcase sitting at her feet and he _doesn’t_ see her. Brendon closes his eyes. It’s stupid for his chest to ache for an imaginary character who will never exist.

Gerard’s just as oblivious as Tony is.

“Juliet quit after telling him. They fought for hours before he left to stay at a friend’s house for the rest of the night. She spent the alone time thinking.”

Brendon suddenly can understand why Juliet seems so heartbroken and defeated. He’s felt that way before. Gerard’s a mind-blowingly good artist and everything translates to the page _so_ damn well.

“Why is she leaving?”

Mikey looks up from his phone, noticing the melancholy in Brendon’s voice before his brother does.

“Gee.”

Gerard startles and stares at them for a moment.

“If she stays, she’ll be murdered for what she knows.”

That’s not melodramatic at _all_. Mikey sighs and Gerard looks confused for a moment before flipping a few pages of his sketchbook. There’s less detail on the page than the last one, but that doesn’t matter.

Juliet’s walking away from the tattoo parlor with her suitcase in one hand. Her back’s to the foreground and her hair swishes against her neck as she walks. She’s gotten it cut since the honeymoon panel. Something about that resonates with Brendon. 

It’s the easiest way to symbolize change.

The sun is high in the sky, and Juliet’s not alone. Tony’s holding her right hand. He’s not carrying anything in his other hand, even though there’s a backpack slung across his shoulder. 

They’re leaving together. Brendon releases the breath he was unconsciously holding. Juliet’s not alone. She’s going to be fine. 

Somehow, that means everything.

Gerard gives Brendon a nervous look, like he’s afraid there are problems with his storytelling while he trails his fingertips over the bottom right of the page.

“The title was Mikey’s idea. He said ending with _The End_ was trite and inaccurate.”

Mikey nods and presses the send button on his phone.

“It is trite and inaccurate.”

Brendon doesn’t know why it matters, except maybe it does when Gerard finally moves his fingers so Brendon can actually catch the title.

“The Killing Trade.”

His voice is a whisper in the quiet. 

Gerard starts to ramble about symbolism and the duality of the title. Brendon doesn’t even pretend to listen. He just stares at the title. It’s a beginning, a middle, and an ending all wrapped up in those three little words.

Gerard’s clueless of Brendon’s past, yet somehow, he’s summed up _everything_ in a graphic novel that Brendon will never buy. Frank will, after Gerard gets around to publishing. 

Brendon’s only seen a few panels, yet, that doesn’t mean he’s wrong to feel a connection to Juliet and her story. That he’s wrong to ache for people who aren’t even real when they hit so _damn_ close to home. 

“It’s perfect, Gee.”

And Brendon means that. He really does. 

Frank shows up around six with food from the GM. Brendon smiles and mentally counts down the hours until he can leave. He wants to go home to his and Frank’s house. Sleep is hard to come by, and he cycles between anticipation and nightmares when he does close his eyes.

The next day dawns cold without a single cloud in the sky, the horizon nothing but a brilliant shade of blue past the line of buildings that sprout upwards all around them. The doctor says things Brendon doesn’t listen to. He’s too busy being cranky and daydreaming about his and Frank’s bed at home to care. 

There are appointments to be made about his arm and double checking to make sure his head’s not scrambled like an egg. Gabe’s going to set Brendon up with his physical therapist. Brendon’s, apparently, on medical leave from the Moxie until his arm is out of the cast and the doctors are sure it’s healed properly. 

Which means he’s going to be holed-up at home for awhile. It’s fucking loads better than being dead or alone. Brendon’s not going to complain much.

He’s fucking lucky that he can walk and do simple shit four year olds can do without having to relearn everything all over again. 

Lucky. 

The doctor have said that a hell of a lot lately. Brendon’s surprised because he’s never felt that way until recently. However, he’s willing to agree with the medical people if it’ll get him out of the hospital quicker.

Once home, it’s like time fast forwards instead of freezing. There is always someone over to keep him company. No one pretends he’s fragile or weak, even though, Gabe makes jokes about getting Brendon a cane to prove his invalid status. 

Frank’s clingy at first, and they spit at each other like two wet tomcats fighting for no damn reason. It’s reminiscent of when he moved in last May, and they were learning how to live with each other. The sex is still scorching, and after four days of bickering they sit down to talk through the shit lurking around in their heads.

It settles most of their squabbles. 

The Friday before Thanksgiving, William sends Brendon a picture text from Vegas. Burnt oranges and reds drape across the gravestones of his family’s plots. As always, the flower arrangements are elegant and not cheap. 

William’s been texting more since the wedding, and Brendon ends up staring at the words **stay safe for them, okay** for most of the day. Occasionally, he’ll switch to the picture, and run his fingers across the screen, over the pixalated flowers. 

He misses his family _so_ damn much, but he’s finally rebuilding. He’d like to think they’d be happy for him, no matter how unconventional his new family is.

Hell, come Thursday, he’s going to meet Mikey and Gerard’s parents. They’re pretty much family to Frank, and they’ve put off a visit for months now. Maybe, a few good memories will go a long way in healing old wounds that have never seemed to knit together right.

After Thanksgiving dinner, they’re going to a local soup kitchen with everyone else to serve food to the homeless. Brendon’s going to be useless as the one-armed man, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss helping the less fortunate.

Frank comes home from the office with take-out. Brendon pushes his fried rice around in its container while he mulls over his thoughts for a few minutes longer.

“If I wanted to go to the cemetery tomorrow, would you take me?”

Frank only pauses long enough to swallow.

“Of course. You don’t mind if I say _‘hi’_ to my mom?”

“No.”

Brendon would never keep Frank from his mother.

“I could introduce you to her after, if you want?”

“I’d like that.”

Which is how they end up bundled in coats and scarves early Saturday morning. Frank drops him off at Jon’s grave, tugging Brendon into a hug before letting him climb out of the car.

“Call me if you need a ride, okay?”

Brendon nods, and shuts the Camry’s door behind him as gently as possible. He doesn’t have trouble finding Jon’s gravestone.

“I never visit. I’m a bad person, I know.”

He feels mildly ridiculous talking to a piece of stone set into the ground, but Brendon doesn’t let the discomfort settle under his skin when he crouches so he can run fingers across the cold stone surface.

“I wanted to say thank you. I don’t think I ever really did. You saved my life, and made sure I’d have one when the dust cleared.”

The wind blows through the limbs of a nearby tree. The last few remaining leaves snap from their home to float in the breeze before lazily twirling to the ground.

“I shouldn’t be a stranger, I guess. I can’t promise I’ll be punctual, but I’ll try. Next time, I’ll bring my boyfriend. He knows about everything and he doesn’t hate me. It’s shocking, but I wouldn’t give him up for the world.”

The grass behind Brendon - and to his left - crunches under a steady footstep. Someone’s walked up. Brendon doesn’t worry about turning around, he’s not in any danger.

“I’ve been a fool, but Gabe’s there to keep me as solid as possible. He misses you, but you already know that because he visits while I don’t.”

Brendon sighs and closes his eyes.

“For the longest, I wished you had let me die instead of taking my place. I think I’ve held onto that anger for far too long. I think, I’m finally ready to let it go. Everything I have now wouldn’t exist if you were anyone else. So....just...thank you...”

He’s still against goodbyes. There’s a huge possibility Brendon will be that way until the day he dies. 

Which is fine. Everyone has their own hang-ups and issues. 

When Brendon stands and turns, Pete’s a few feet behind him with satin flowers pressed against his chest. His black Porsche is parked at the edge of the access road, Patrick and Joe leaning against the side of the car casually watching Pete and Brendon.

“You know, for an angry kid who grew up into an angry young man, you’re strangely complex, Brendon Urie.”

Brendon raises one shoulder in reply as he walks past Pete. What is there to say? Maybe if things were different, if Pete had taken him in, there wouldn’t be this massive rift between them.

But then, chances are that would have made everything worse.

“I hear people tend to be that way.”

Brendon tries not to clip his words, but he’s cold and his arm’s beginning to ache along with itching like there’s a thousand ants crawling across his skin.

“You resent me, and I’ve known that for years, but ask yourself this, how much more would you have hated yourself, and me, if I’d tried to raise you instead of Gabe?”

And that...is a really good question. One Brendon doesn’t have an answer for. He has no love for organized crime, not since his parents and siblings were murdered. To have been adopted into that, would have been hell, and he would have grown more hateful and violent than he had with Gabe. 

Pete’s right. 

Fuck, Brendon doesn’t enjoy admitting that, not even mentally.

“You’re always going to be family, just like Gabe. I don’t give a fuck about lines, but I won’t meddle in your life anymore. If you’re done, you’re done. I believe you.”

Brendon stares at his shoes for a second before letting his gaze wander upwards and over across the cemetery lots.

“Thank you, but I gotta go. There’s someone I’ve been wanting to meet for a while.”

His and Pete’s relationship is never going to be great. Maybe in a few years they can reach a more solid place like what he has with Spencer, but, for now, this shifting ground of grudging understanding will have to do. 

Brendon shoves his right hand into his coat pocket, and starts to walk in the direction of Frank’s Camry. Pete’s voice follows his first few steps.

“Happy Thanksgiving.”

Brendon nods but doesn’t stop or voice a reply. His whole future is in front of him. Good days, bad days, and in between days are all right there for the taking. He just has to reach out and grab them. Brendon can’t predict tomorrow, but he’s learned that if he doesn’t try, nothing ever gets better.

The world is cruel. It’s petty, dark, and painful. 

But. 

It’s also wonderful, beautiful, and full of people trying their damnedest to be the best they possibly can.

It’s about damn time Brendon woke up. Actually tried to live for himself. He didn’t die with his family, and he didn’t fall with Jon. 

Maybe being left behind is a fate worse than death.

However, that just depends on your perspective and, in his case, over a decade’s worth of distance settling between now and then.

It’s taken _fucking_ years, but Brendon’s ready. Since last September, he’s slowly crawled his way to this moment. Now that he’s here, he gets it. 

Or, at least, he thinks he does.

First things first, though. He has an introduction he doesn’t want to be late for. Brendon would hate to disappoint Frank by wearing himself out before he can meet his boyfriend’s mother. Maybe one day, they’ll fly to Vegas and he’ll introduce Frank to his family. Until then, he’s going to stop hiding from everything.

Brendon’s in love, the world is imperfect, and that’s okay.

The Killing Trade

**Author's Note:**

> Quotes are from Dr. Seuss, they are so not mine. All movies and songs mentioned are also not mine(obviously). Peter's Evil Overlord List does indeed exist, it is genius and also not mine. If you'd like to check it out it can be found [Here](http://www.eviloverlord.com/lists/overlord.html)


End file.
